You know the place:
Leave Crete and come to uswaiting where the grove ispleasantest, by precinctssacred to you; incensesmokes on the altar, coldstreams murmur through theapple branches, a youngrose thicket shades the groundand quivering leaves pourdown deep sleep; in meadowswhere horses have grown sleekamong spring flowers, dillscents the air.
Queen!
Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with lovestirred into clear nectartranslated by:
Barnard
