Stanzas 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-twentyAre 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 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,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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