Classic Poem

I plodded homeward through the snow and stubble,
A wallet heavy with junk upon my back,
And saw the sun, a fire-distended bubble,
Sway over the stiff trees grown flat and black.
And as the sun, perceptibly descended,
Tumbled a cloud of carmine to the snow,
A god came striding through the tree boles, splendid
In pride of youth, naked, bearing a bow.
I dropped my pack and raced across the hollow,
Stumbled, and sank knee-deep in drifts, and cried:
" God of the silver bow, divine Apollo,
It is not true that you with Hellas died! "
With the profound tenderness of a sage or brother,
The god turned, and tremendous thunder flamed:
" Apollo died long ago. I am that other
Who sang. For me the morning star was named. "