On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday

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.

Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor was an English writer, poet, and dramatist. He is best known for his prose work, the 'Imaginary Conversations,' but also wrote numerous poems and plays. Landor had a tempestuous character and often found himself in conflict with authorities and contemporaries. Despite his combative nature, he was highly regarded by other literary figures such as Charles Dickens and Robert Browning. His works reflect his classical education and strong individualism.

Walter Savage Landor

Farewell To Italy

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

A Ballad Of The Trees And The Master

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

The Test

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Verses Why Burnt

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

English

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On Himself

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I lovd, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Walter Savage Landor

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

Finis

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warmd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Walter Savage Landor

Dying Speech Of An Old Philosopher

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.

Walter Savage Landor

I Strove With None

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Walter Savage Landor

Age

Death, tho' I see him not, is near
And grudges me my eightieth year.
Now, I would give him all these last
For one that fifty have run past.
Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,
But bargains: those he will not strike.

Walter Savage Landor