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!”