| To Pythia Aloft the chasm, seat of stone,
A gilded tripod is thy throne.
Apollo's priestess, thou dost breathe
And stare through Delphi's living smoke,
Arising from the grotto's deep,
Where now renewed from his long sleep,
The serpent sloughs his scaly cloak
(And will his secret form unsheathe!)
As thou art seized with fits and shrieks
And visions as Apollo speaks
Through thee and thy wine-colored lips.
Barbarians and brother Greeks
Come from afar, alight from ships,
To hear Him clad in birthing hips. Tony Hauptmann | 
