Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/98

 Phoebus Apollo

HEAR us, Phoebus Apollo, who are shorn of contempt and pride,

Humbled and crushed in a world gone wrong since the smoke on thine altars died ;

Hear us, Lord of the morning, King of the Eastern Flame,

Dawn on our doubts and darkness and the night of our later shame !

There are strange gods come among us, of passion, and scorn, and greed ;

They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed :

The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded thy chil- dren's eyes,

And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers us not with lies,

Sick for thy light unblemished, great fruit of Latona's pain

Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again !

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