On His Eightieth Birthday
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.
Walter Savage Landor
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.
In this tiny, calm poem, an old man looks back on a long life that has become unsteady and lonely. The word “tottered” tells us immediately that he’s frail – he hasn’t walked gracefully through his eighties, but stumbled.
Read the full summary