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Show o The Days of Our Youth. Oh, talk not lo mo of a namo ureal In story; Tho days of our youth are tho days of our glory; And tho myrtle nnd Ivy of sweet two and twenty Are worth nil your laurels, though ever so plenty. What aro garlands and crowns to tho brow that la wrinkled? 'Tls but ns a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from tho head that Is hoary 1 What cans I for tho wreaths that' can only glvo glory! Oh Fame! If I o'ro took delight In thy praises, 'Twns less for tho sako of thy lilgh- soundlng phrases. Than to sco tho bright eyes of tho dear ono discover Sho thought that I was not unworthy to lovo her. There chiefly I sought thee, thero only I found theo; Her glanco was tho best of tho rays that surround thee; When It sparkled o'er aught that was bright In my story, I know it was love, and I felt It was Blory. Lord Byron. |