Fragment: The False Laurel and the True
Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition.
'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.'