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？
'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？
O 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.