| Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875. |
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| Lord Byron |
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| CLXIX. All for Love |
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| 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. | |
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| What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? | 5 |
| '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? | |
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| O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, | |
| 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, | 10 |
| Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover | |
| She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. | |
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| 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, | 15 |
| I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. | |
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