Analysis of At Delphi
Alfred Austin 1835 (Leeds) – 1913 (Ashford)
I
Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!
II
Where hast thou, Apollo, gone?
I have wandered on and on,
Through the shaggy Dorian gorges,
Down from where Parnassus forges
Thunder for the Phocian valleys;
Where the Pleistus springs and sallies
Past ravines and caverns dread,
Have, like it, meanderëd;
But I cannot see thee, hear thee,
Find thee, feel thee, get anear thee.
Though in quest of thee I go where
Thou didst haunt, I find thee nowhere,
Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!
III
Still no answer comes. . . . Apollo!
Vainly do I call and holloa
Into each Crissoean cleft
Where the last year's leaves are left.
Deem not I have pushed my way
But from stony Amphissà.
I have come from far-off land,
Traversed foam, traversed sand,
From green pastures sea-surrounded,
Where thy phorminx never sounded;
O'er the broad and barren acres
Of the vainly furrowed breakers,
Across mountains loftier far
Than the peaks of Pindus are;
Skirted groves of pine and fir
Denser than lone Tempe's were,
With no selfish tread, but only
I might find thee, lovely, lonely,
Lingering by thy sacred city:
On me wilt thou not have pity?
Sun-god! Song-god! I implore thee!
Glow, and let me pale before thee,
Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!
IV
Fallen tablet, prostrate column,
Solitude and silence solemn!
Half-tilled patches, squalid hovels,
Where life multiplies and grovels-
Is this Delphi, this the shrine
Of the Musagete divine?
This the cavern, this the cell,
Of the Pythian oracle!
Where the tripod, where the altar,
Incense, embassy, and psalter?
Can this pool of cresses be
Cradle of pure Castaly?
From the rock though still it bubbles,
Travels onwards, halts, and doubles,
Where the Muses wont to lave
Limbs as vestal as its wave,
'Mong the flashing waters flashing,-
Gaunt and withered crones are washing.
Not a note of lyre or zittern,
But, below, the booming bittern
Waits his quarry to inveigle,
While o'erhead the silent eagle,
Blinking, stares at the blank sun-
All of thee that is not gone,
Apollo! Apollo!
V
Who art thou, intruder weird!
With the fine and flowing beard?
Whom no snowy robes encumber,
But a habit black and sombre,
Yet in whose composëd eyes
Lurks the light of mysteries.
Priest thou seemest, but not one
Of the loved Latona's son.
In thy aspect is no gladness,
Glance nor gleam of joyous madness,
Only gloom, only sadness.
Underneath thy knotted girdle
Thoughts congeal and passions curdle,
And about thy brow ascetic
Lives nor light nor line prophetic.
Priest, but priest not of Apollo,
Whither wouldst thou have me follow?
Lead but onward, I will enter
Where thy cold gaze seems to centre,
Underneath yon portal dismal,
Into dusk and chill abysmal.
Hast thou pent him? Is He lying
There within, dethroned and dying?
If thou breathest, hear me crying,
``Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!''
VI
No, but here He cannot be,
God of light and poesy!
What are these I see around,
Gloomy upon gloomy ground,
Making wall and roof to seem
Sepulchre of morbid dream?
Visages with aspect stony,
Bodies lean, and lank, and bony,
In whose lineaments I trace
Neither love, nor joy, nor grace:
Youth with limbs disused and old,
Maidens pale, contorted, cold,
Flames devouring, pincers wrenching
Muscles naked but unblenching,
Writhing snakes forked venom darting
Into flesh-wounds, gaping, smarting,
Furies shagged with tresses fell,
Ghouls and ghosts of nether hell!
Priest of beauty! Priest of song!
Aid me, if thou still art strong!
See me! save me! bear me whither
Glows thy light that brought me hither,
Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!
VII
O the sunshine once again!
O to stand a man 'mong men!
Lo! the horrid nightmare pales
In the light of flowing vales,
In the gaze of steadfast mountains,
Sidelong runnels, forward fountains,
Spacious sky, receding air,
Breadth and bounty everywhere.
What if all the gods be dead,
Nature reigneth in their stead.
Let me dream the noon away
Underneath this full-blown bay,
Where the yellow bees are busy,
Till they stagger, drowsy, dizzy,
From the honeyed wine that wells
Up the branches to the cells
Of the myriad-clustered flowers
Dropping golden flakes in showers.
Here reclined, I will surrender
Sense and soul unto the tender
Mingling of remote and close:
Gods voluptuous, gods morose;
Altars at whose marble meet
Downcast eyes and dancing feet;
Awful dirges, glad ca
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1 010010010 1 1110101 1110101 101010010 1111010 1010110 1011010 1010101 1110101 11101111 1111111 10111111 1111111 010010010 1 11101010 1011101 01111 1011111 1111111 11101 1111111 101101 11101010 1111010 100101010 10101010 01101001 101111 1011101 101110 11101110 11111010 100111010 11111110 11111011 10111011 010010010 1 10101010 1001010 11101010 111001 1110101 10101 1010101 101100 1011010 01100010 1111101 10111 10111110 10101010 1010111 1110111 10101010 10101110 1011111 1010101 111011 1101010 1011011 1111111 010010 1 1110101 1010101 11101010 1010101 101111 1011100 111111 10111 011111 11111010 1011010 0111010 1010101 00111010 11111010 11111010 10111110 11101110 11111110 0111010 01101010 11111110 10101010 1111110 010010010 1 1111101 11101 1111101 1001101 1010111 11101 11110 10101010 01111 1011111 111101 1010101 101001010 101011 10111010 01111010 111101 1011101 1110111 1111111 11111110 11111110 010010010 1 101101 1110111 101011 0011101 0011110 1101010 1010101 101010 1110111 101011 1110101 011111 10101110 11101010 101111 1010101 101001010 10101010 10111010 10110010 10010101 10100101 1011101 110101 10111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,121 |
Words | 720 |
Sentences | 61 |
Stanzas | 7 |
Stanza Lengths | 2, 14, 24, 26, 26, 24, 26 |
Lines Amount | 142 |
Letters per line (avg) | 24 |
Words per line (avg) | 5 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 478 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 103 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:37 min read
- 74 Views
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"At Delphi" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 11 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/681/at-delphi>.
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