Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.' 

1. The Fitful Alternations of the Rain
2. Wine Of The Fairies
3. Bereavement
4. From the Arabic, an Imitation
5. I Would Not Be A King

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