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
Quivering leaves pour down deep sleep
In meadows where horses have grown sleek
Among spring flowers, dill scent the air
Queen! Cyprian!
Fill our golden cups with love
Stirred into clear nectar ~~~
No comments:
Post a Comment