Hymn to Appolo

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 for a worm

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

Why was not I crush’d⁠—such a pitiful germ?

O Delphic Apollo!