Classic Poem

The fool who shot against the noonday sun,
Then stood agape to note the mischief done,
Just as he thought the missile at its place,
Received the returning arrow in his face;
But still a fool—though bleeding, and in pain—
His vanity could make the matter plain;
“Behold!” he cried, “Apollo's jealous spite
Lets fly this shaft at my superior light!”