Apollo’s Plea to the Laurel
why do you flee me, Daphne? am I so grotesque,
that even the sun’s own fire cannot impress
upon your heart, a flicker, a spark, a flame?
do I bear such weight of shame?
i’ve chased the stars, i’ve held the skies,
yet still you run—why hide your eyes?
is my touch so cold, though i warm the earth,
that you shun the love i would give worth?
this laurel, so fair, with leaves like gold,
do you mock me too, in silence bold?
i lean my head upon your bough,
and wonder, could she love me now?
am i cursed to love, and never gain
the joy i seek, but only pain?
what flaw in me could cast such fear,
that your soul won’t let me near?
could you not see, my love is pure?
must you transform to endure
the sight of me? tell me, tree,
why does she turn her heart from me?
if my face offends the very air,
if gods are grotesque to the truly fair,
then let this wood consume me whole,
for without her love, what is my soul?