God of the golden bows,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
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!
-John Keats
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