Come here to me from Crete, to your temple,
Where stands your lovely grove of apple trees,
Where holy 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 field that's grazed by horses is lush
With spring flowers, here the winds sweetly blow
[...]
Here, O goddess, so gracefully you grasp
The golden cup, freely pouring like wine
The nectar all-mixed with our rejoicing.