Hymn To Apollo
1.
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!
2.
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!
3.
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!
