Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; <br />The days of our youth are the days of our glory; <br />And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty <br />Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. <br /> <br />What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? <br />'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: <br />Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! <br />What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? <br /> <br />O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, <br />'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, <br />Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover <br />She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. <br /> <br />There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; <br />Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; <br />When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, <br />I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stanzas-written-on-the-road-between-florence-and-2/
