Written on the Road between Florence and Pisa 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? ’T is 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? O, 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 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.
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