Fame

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? 
'T is 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? 

Oh FAME! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was 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.