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Hymn To Apollo

 God of the golden bow,
 And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
 And of the golden fire,
 Of the patient year,
 Where---where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
 Thy laurel, thy glory,
 The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?
 O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
 The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
The eagle's feathery mane
 For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound
 Of breeding thunder
 Went drowsily under,
 Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm? Why touch thy soft lute Till the thunder was mute, Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ? O Delphic Apollo! The Pleiades were up, Watching the silent air; The seeds and roots in Earth Were swelling for summer fare; The Ocean, its neighbour, Was at his old labour, When, who---who did dare To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow, And grin and look proudly, And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now? O Delphic Apollo!

by John Keats
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