806. Last Fruit Off an Old Tree, 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.

Source: Poetry & Prose
Posted by Akshay Ahuja at 6:35 PM
Labels:

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)