Ah, love, within the shadow of the wood <br />The laurels are cut down; some other brows <br />May bear the classic wreath which Fame allows <br />And find the burden honorable and good. <br />Have we not passed the laurels as they stood-- <br />Soft in the veil with which Spring endows <br />The wintry glitter of their woven boughs-- <br />Nor stopped to break the branches while we could? <br /> <br />Ah, love, for other brows they are cut down. <br />Thornless and scentless are their stems and flowers, <br />And cold as death their twisted coronal. <br />Sweeter to us the sharpness of this crown; <br />Sweeter the wildest roses which are ours; <br />Sweeter the petals, even when they fall.<br /><br />Elinor Morton Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/les-lauriers-sont-coup-e/
