* * *

 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!