You know the place: Then

Leave Crete and come to us

waiting where the grove is

pleasantest, by precincts

sacred to you; incense

smokes on the altar, cold

streams murmur through the

apple branches, a young

rose thicket shades the ground

and quivering leaves pour

down deep sleep; in meadows

where horses have grown sleek

among spring flowers, dill

scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!

Fill our gold cups with love

stirred into clear nectar.