Many Are Called

 The Lord Apollo, who has never died, 
Still holds alone his immemorial reign, 
Supreme in an impregnable domain 
That with his magic he has fortified; 
And though melodious multitudes have tried
In ecstasy, in anguish, and in vain, 
With invocation sacred and profane 
To lure him, even the loudest are outside.
 

Only at unconjectured intervals, 
By will of him on whom no man may gaze,
By word of him whose law no man has read, 
A questing light may rift the sullen walls, 
To cling where mostly its infrequent rays 
Fall golden on the patience of the dead.

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