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 ivy¹ of sweet two-and-twenty

    Are worth all your laurels² 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.

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