Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/99

 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.

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