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THE SLAVE OF APOLLO.
"How shall I rid myself from thee,
Apollo? Give me leave to be
No more than flower, or wind, or thought,
—Only a fragrant memory, nought,
Or anything that's free:
"Give me—O pitying—some power
To cease; make me a gentle shower;
A hidden fount that murmureth
In some sweet glimmer all apart
From sounds of living: give me death!
Or loose me for your love of me;
My bosom faileth and my heart
No more a prisoner will be
—Will be free!
