Phoebus Apollo
Our eyes, of earth grown weary, through the backward ages
peer, Till, wooed by our eager craving, the scent of thy birth
grows clear
And across the calm JEgean, gray-green in the early morn, We hear the cry of the circling swans that salute the god
new-born The challenge of mighty Python, the song of thy shafts that
go Straight to the heart of the monster, sped from the loosened
bow.
Again through the vale of Tempe a magical music rings The songs of the marching muses, the ripple of fingered
strings !
But this is our dreaming only ; we wait for a stronger strain : Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again !
There are some among us, Diviner, who know not thy way
or will,
Some of thy rebel children who bow to the strange gods still ; Some that dream of oppression, and many that dream of gold, Whose ears are deaf to the music that gladdened the world
of old.
73
