From the Richmond Times Dispatch, July 9, 1915. By Byron.
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?
’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 wreaths that can only give glory?
Oh, Fame! If I ever 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 saw 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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