O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory:
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two - and - twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May - dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is heary --
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame!-- If I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high - sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
