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!

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 3021 times | Comments (0)

Poet: John Keats
Poem: Hymn To Apollo

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