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!