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! |