Sing, O, Muse, of the ire of Helios, who looks
With burning eye upon the hills that rise where once
Did Ocean flow and from what that flow bore are made,
Which now excites the metal Hermes to those heights
Again where it has danced before, as all look on
And shade themselves with hat and bough of tree, and long
For other days when they despised the cold now fled
And shivered in their coats and by their fires and thought
That they would fain again tempt Theia’s child’s rebuke!

I wonder if you’d help me avoid the wrath of Hyperion’s son.