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.'