I. The Apollo Belvedere

Radiance invincible! Is that the brow Which gleamed on Python while thy arrow sped? Are those the lips for Hyacinthus dead That grieved? Wherefore a God indeed art thou: For all we toil with ill, and the hours bow And break us, and at best when we have bled, And are much marred, perchance propitiated A little doubtful victory they allow: We sorrow, and thenceforth the lip retains A shade, and the eyes shine and wonder less. O joyous Slayer of evil things! O great And splendid Victor! God, whom no soil stains Of passion or doubt, of grief or languidness, --Even to worship thee I come too late.