The Candidate
LIGHT-GIRDED Phœbus, Phœbus, here
Beside thy gold-shod feet I shear
My boyhood's hair so fair, so long
My mother's joy, behold it there,
Gone from me like my nurse's song!
A man from hence, O let me wear
Thy dark leaves round my temples bare,
Give me the ivy crown to-day,
Place in my hand the bough of bay!
Beside thy gold-shod feet I shear
My boyhood's hair so fair, so long
My mother's joy, behold it there,
Gone from me like my nurse's song!
A man from hence, O let me wear
Thy dark leaves round my temples bare,
Give me the ivy crown to-day,
Place in my hand the bough of bay!
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