Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!
And why the wish! the pure and blest Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
To my ninth decade I have tottered on, And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady; She, who once led me where she would, is gone, So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: O, if you felt the pain I feel! But O, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true-- All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
In spring and summer winds may blow, And rains fall after, hard and fast; The tender leaves, if beaten low, Shine but the more for shower and blast
But when their fated hour arrives, When reapers long have left the field, When maidens rifle turn'd-up hives, And their last juice fresh apples yield,
A leaf perhaps may still remain Upon some solitary tree, Spite of the wind and of the rain . . . A thing you heed not if you see.
At last it falls. Who cares? Not one: And yet no power on earth can ever Replace the fallen leaf upon Its spray, so easy to dissever.
If such be love, I dare not say. Friendship is such, too well I know: I have enjoyed my summer day; 'Tis past; my leaf now lies below.
Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane, O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes, And trembled every one with still surprise, That the black Spectre should have dared assail Their beauteous queen and seize her sacred veil
Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er, And sooner beauty's heavenly smile: Grant only (and I ask no more), Let love remain that little while.
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.
Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864) was an English writer and poet who spent much of his life in England and Italy. His poetry is distinguished by classical restraint, carefully crafted epigrammatic style, and recurring themes of love, loss, and the transience of life. Drawing on Greek and Roman models, he achieved concise and structured expression in short lyrics such as 'Rose Aylmer' and 'I Strove with None.' Although a contemporary of the Romantics, Landor’s aesthetic aligned more with the classical tradition, and he quietly influenced later poets like Robert Browning and Ezra Pound. His prose work Imaginary Conversations, a series of dialogues between historical figures, forms his most extensive literary project. Landor’s reputation rests on his short poems and his dedication to formal clarity.
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