STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

On, tally 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 bronw taht is wrinkled?

'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled.

Then away with all such from the head 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 shought 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.

November, 1821.

Lord Byron