Prayer to Apollo

It was a blessed delivery when Leto gave birth on the fruitful island of Delos:
the golden-haired expert on the lyre, and her whose pride is in accurate archery.
She carried her offspring from the island in the sea, leaving the famous birthplace,
to Mt. Pamassos’ peak where abundant water flows and which dances to Dionysos’ tune.
There a darkly patterned dragon, scales glinting in the shade of thick laurel foliage,
Earth’s abominable monster, guarded her oracle.
While still a baby, while still in your mother’s arms, you sprang,
Phoibos Apollo, killed the beast, and took control of the oracle,
and now you are seated on the golden tripod, the unerring throne.
There you give prophecies to men from the holy temple by the spring Kastalia,
the hub of earth in your command.