---

Percy Bysshe Shelley - The False Laurel And The True
Work rating: Low

`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.`
Source
The script ran 0 seconds.