'What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest <br />The wreath to mighty poets only due, <br />Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest? <br />Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few <br />Who wander o'er the Paradise of fame, <br />In sacred dedication ever grew: <br />One of the crowd thou art without a name.' <br />'Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear; <br />Bright though it seem, it is not the same <br />As that which bound Milton’s immortal hair; <br />Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quicken <br />Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair, <br />Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.'<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-false-laurel-and-the-true/
