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
- Sappho, translated by Mary Barnard. |