Stanzas Written on the Road between Florence and Pisa

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 the wreaths that can _only_ give glory?…