The Poetry Corner

A Greek Lyrist Sings Of Apollo.

By Margaret Steele Anderson

Ah, it was he I heard at early dawn, From the high hilltop and the dew-wet hollow, While I was yet as tender as a fawn. Calling me, "Follow!" And it was he who spoke at sultry noon, By the bright pool, when Dian was away: "Frail is your harp as is the crescent moon, Yet shall you play!" Still do I hear that calling, Apollo! Though it is far, and failing is the light: "Lo, you are spent, but you shall rise and follow Into the night!"