THE BADGER PUBLIC LIBRARY

Hymn To Apollo

John Keats

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!