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.
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire