Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > The Book of Georgian Verse
William Stanley Braithwaite, ed.  The Book of Georgian Verse.  1909.
Written on the Road between Florence and Pisa
By 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?        5
’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,        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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