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.'