Ann Ackerman, my Senior English teacher at Lexington High School in Lexington, Ohio, was the best teacher I ever had. Five years after my high school graduation, I married her daughter, after which Mrs. Ackerman became the best (and only) mother-in-law I ever had.

She was hugely entertaining in class but also very demanding. For one, she made us memorize poems, something I had never done. One was this poem by Lord Byron, all about youthful arrogance, impetuosity and love:

Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

O Fame! -if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

Memorizing those stanzas was a steep climb for a kid growing up in rural north central Ohio, but there was no getting around it. I nailed it and can recite it to this day, fifty years later. Now that I have a “brow that is wrinkled,” not to mention a “head that is hoary,” I view the poem differently than I did when I was 17. When I recite it to myself, I think, “Heck. Lord Byron was dead at 36. What did he know about wrinkles? Diddley-squat."

I’ve memorized quite a few poems. After I have a poem in my head, it sometimes begins to “sing.” Before I know it, I’m setting it to music.

When I set Lord Byron’s poem to music, in 1977, I tried to capture its high Romanticism, galloping rhythm and breathless, forward-plunging speed. The song goes by mighty quickly, clocking in at a little over 90 seconds.

Byron’s title being a bit of a mouthful, I re-named it, “The Days of Our Glory."

To hear baritone Dan Hoy’s strapping rendition of “The Days of Our Glory,” click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
June 12, 2016

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

Tomorrow being “the Glorious Fourth,” let’s bask in Glory. I mean “glory,” simply defined as: “magnificence or great beauty.”...

Byron’s ‘stanzas’ [above] brim with youthful arrogance, impetuosity and love. In short, “Glory!”

Memorizing those stanzas was a steep climb for me, a kid growing up in rural Ohio, but there was no getting around it. I nailed it, recited it in front of the class and can recite it to this day, fifty years later.

When I set this poem to music, in 1977, I was 27. There were no wrinkles on my brow and my head was decidedly un-hoary. I tried to capture its high Romanticism, galloping rhythm and breathless, forward-plunging speed. The song goes by mighty quickly, clocking in at a little over 90 seconds. The singer has to spit out the words, though I let him slow down in the final stanza. As you’ll shortly hear, baritone Dan Hoy sings the song with a wallop, “high and disposedly.”

Now that I have a “brow that is wrinkled” and a “head that is hoary” I view the poem differently than I did when I was 17. Nowadays, when I recite it to myself, I think: “Heck. Byron died at 36, half my age. What did he know? Glory and wrinkles are mutually exclusive? Sez who?”

To hear Dan Hoy's spirited rendition of “The Days of Our Glory,” click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.