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 for a worm

                  Why touch thy soft lute

                  Till the thunder was mute,

Why was not I crush'd—such a pitiful germ?

                        O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up,

            Watching the silent air;

      The seeds and roots in the Earth

            Were swelling for summer fare;

                        The Ocean, its neighbour,

                        Was at its old labour,

            When, who—who did dare

To tie, like a madman, 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!