The Lord Apollo, who has never died, <br />Still holds alone his immemorial reign, <br />Supreme in an impregnable domain <br />That with his magic he has fortified; <br />And though melodious multitudes have tried <br />In ecstasy, in anguish, and in vain, <br />With invocation sacred and profane <br />To lure him, even the loudest are outside. <br /> <br />Only at unconjectured intervals, <br />By will of him on whom no man may gaze, <br />By word of him whose law no man has read, <br />A questing light may rift the sullen walls, <br />To cling where mostly its infrequent rays <br />Fall golden on the patience of the dead.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/many-are-called/
