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Poem by John Keats
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 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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