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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117231" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Phœbus Apollo</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, who are shorn of contempt and pride,<br>Humbled and crushed in a world gone wrong since the smoke on thine altars died;<br>Hear us, Lord of the morning, King of the Eastern Flame,<br>Dawn on our doubts and darkness and the night of our later shame!<br>There are strange gods come among us, of passion, and scorn, and greed;<br>They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed:<br>The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded thy children’s eyes,<br>And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers us not with lies,<br>Sick for thy light unblemished, great fruit of Latona’s pain—<br>Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our eyes, of earth grown weary, through the backward ages peer,<br>Till, wooed by our eager craving, the scent of thy birth grows clear<br>And across the calm Ægean, gray-green in the early morn,<br>We hear the cry of the circling swans that salute the god new-born—<br>The challenge of mighty Python, the song of thy shafts that go<br>Straight to the heart of the monster, sped from the loosened bow.<br>Again through the vale of Tempe a magical music rings<br>The songs of the marching muses, the ripple of fingered strings!<br>But this is our dreaming only; we wait for a stronger strain:<br>Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are some among us, Diviner, who know not thy way or will,<br>Some of thy rebel children who bow to the strange gods still;<br>Some that dream of oppression, and many that dream of gold,<br>Whose ears are deaf to the music that gladdened the world of old.<br>But we, the few and the faithful, we are weary of wars unjust,<br>There is left no god of our thousand gods that we love, believe, or trust;<br>In our courts is justice scoffed at, in our senates gold has sway,<br>And the deeds of our priests and preachers make mock of the words they say!<br>Cardinals, kings, and captains, there is left none fit to reign:<br>Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have hearkened to creeds unnumbered, we have given them trial and test,<br>And the creed of thy Delphic temple is still of them all the best;<br>Thy clean-limbed, lithe disciples, slender, and strong, and young,<br>The swing of their long processions, the lilt of the songs they sung,<br>Thine own majestic presence, pursuing the nymph of dawn,<br>In thy chariot eastward blazing, by the swans and griffons drawn;<br>The spell of thy liquid music, once heard in the speeding year: —<br>These are the things, Great Archer, that we yearn to see and hear,<br>For beside thy creed untarnished all others are stale and vain!<br>Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Monarch of light and laughter, honor, and trust, and truth,<br>God of all inspiration, King of eternal youth,<br>Whose words are fitted to music as jewels are set in gold,<br>There is need of thy splendid worship in a world grown grim and old!<br>We have drunk the wine of the ages, we are come to the dregs and lees,<br>And the shrines are all unworthy where we bend reluctant knees;<br>The brand of the beast is on us, we grovel, and grope, and err,<br>Wake, Great god of the Morning, the moment has come to stir!<br>The stars of our night of evil on a wan horizon wane: —<br>Hear us, Phœbus Apollo, and come to thine own again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Guy+Wetmore+Carryl">Guy Wetmore Carryl</a> from <i>The Garden of Years and Other Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117231" data-title="Phœbus Apollo de Guy Wetmore Carryl" data-description="Hear us, Phœbus 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..."></div>
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