Dandy 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!

(John Keats, Hymn to Apollo)