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?