GOD of the golden bow,
     And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
     And of the golden fire,
           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!

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