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 be-sprinkled. 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, '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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY GARDEN by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN THE LAST SUPPER by RAINER MARIA RILKE A WORKING PARTY by SIEGFRIED SASSOON DIRGE FOR A YOUNG MAIDEN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES MORGUE: 2. LOVELY CHILDHOOD by GOTTFRIED BENN IDYLL 3. THE TEACHER TAUGHT by BION |