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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