God of the golden bow,

And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,

And of the golden fire,


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!

By John Keats

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