Hymn To Apollo

 God of the golden bow,
 And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
 And of the golden fire,
 Charioteer
 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!

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