Have you won, Apollo, your father's place, and stolen his lightning rods? Usurped all the heavens to blot out the paler lights of the lesser gods? Your skies are clear, and only the single eye of your golden being illuminates everything, lighting our way and fixing the range of our seeing. We, today, aspire to be like you, in all ways, lord Apollo. Yours is the standard of light we love, and we all long to follow; high above turmoil, watching it broil, safe and aloof with your distance, looking down with your detachment and a cool resolve of resistance. Young like you, we all want to be ever-younger than springtime; the worst abuse we any of us suffer is being called "past prime". All of us today are in love, Apollo, with your slender body of marble; we think of it eating, or running, or shopping, or lifting the barbell. Young women, as men, we want your physique with its potent youthful appeal: smooth cheeks and flat tummies and sun-gilded hair are perfect for clinching a deal. Everywhere today, you reign Apollo, we work and live by your grace, as we watch you fire your hunting arrows far and deep into space. Your eye, Apollo, looks up and across and down on every thing, and bedazzled nights, clowning under your lights, make even the birds sing. And pity, great Lord, those who fall from your grace, to that foul pit of depression; out of your light, and out of your sight, is cold, and the worst oppression. And muffle the voices of those, God of light, who speak of rich lives underground; they cannot know of that which they speak since their reasoning is not sound. You have no brother who lurks in the dark, no counterpart drenched in mystery, the myths that say you have are wrong, for myth is mere faulty history. So we pray, Apollo, beam us up, to the Elysian fields of your dreaming; enlightened and free we are ready to soar, with no earthly soul for redeeming.