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Phoebus Apollo
HEAR us, Phoebus 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 our later shame !
There are strange gods come among us, of passion, and scorn, and greed ;
They are throned in our stately cities, our sons at their altars bleed :
The smoke of their thousand battles hath blinded thy chil- dren's eyes,
And our hearts are sick for a ruler that answers us not with lies,
Sick for thy light unblemished, great fruit of Latona's pain
Hear us, Phoebus Apollo, and come to thine own again !
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