Until he hears Apollo's voice
By sacred immolation's fire,
The world's vain cares will not inspire
The poet, burdened against choice.
By holy harp in silent thrall,
His soul will taste but chilling sleep,
And from the world's most artless keep,
Perhaps is he the worst of all.
For only words of root divine
Could ever reach his pristine sounds;
Entranced, the poet's soul abounds
An eagle waking at a sign.
No worldly pleasures; no, instead
So alien to the rabble's talk,
At icon's feet will he then balk,
Refuse to bend his haughty head;
And wild and fierce, he will but flee
Full of commotion and of sound,
To shores of empty waves aground,
To oaks still louder than the sea.