Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; br The days of our youth are the days of our glory; br And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty br Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. br br What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? br 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: br Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! br What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? br br O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, br 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, br Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover br She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. br br There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; br Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; br When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, br I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.