471. All for Love

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788—1824)

  O 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?

  ’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.