Poem by Walter Savage Landor

* * *

      Death stands above me, whispering low
        I know not what into my ear:
      Of his strange language all I know
        Is, there is not a word of fear.

1. With Rosy Hand a Little Girl Prest Down
2. Twenty Years Hence My Eyes May Grow
3. Yes; I Write Verses Now and Then
4. Well I Remember How You Smiled
5. To Robert Browning

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