ALL FOR LOVEBy George Gordon, Lord ByronO 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 discoverShe 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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