The False Laurel and the True

‘What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest

      The wreath to mighty poets only due,

Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?

      Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few

Who wander o’er the Paradise of fame,

      In sacred dedication ever grew:

One of the crowd thou art without a name.’

      ’Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear;

Bright though it seem, it is not the same

      As that which bound Milton’s immortal hair;

Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quicken

      Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair,

Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.’