Lord Byron (1788–1824)

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 be-sprinkled.

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,

’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.