Come here to me from Crete, to your holy temple,
Where your lovely grove of apple stands,
Where the altars smoke with frankincense;
Here cold water sounds through apple branches,
The ground is all carpeted with roses,
Enchanted sleep falls from shimmering leaves;
Here the horse-grazed field
Is lush with spring flowers
And the winds sweetly blow....
Here, Cyprian goddess, you grasp
The golden cup so gracefully,
Pouring like wine the nectar
All-mixed with our rejoicing.
Monadnock Valley Press > Sappho