A young Apollo, golden haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife. Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life. He has no cause to want life his own, His is but a short part to play. Yet when called, he shall dethrone And leave for fields far away. His naive duty shows no bounds, His will is there for else to course And when he faces warring hounds His thoughts and cries shall there be forced To think of life as it was lived, To dream of love, as he was loved. To cherish, hold, recieve and give His mortal, everlasting blood (the first stanza of this poem was written by Frances Cornford, not me.)