Verse > Lord Byron > Poems
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Lord Byron (1788–1824).  Poetry of Byron.  1881.
 
IV. Satiric
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?        5
’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?
 
Oh FAME!—if I e’er took delight in thy praises,
’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,        10
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,        15
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
 
 
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