Oh, 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 hoary!

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.