Classic Poem

Come to me from Crete to this holy temple,
Aphrodite. Here is a grove of apple
tress for your delight, and the smoking altars
fragrant with incense.

Here cold water rustles down through the apple
branches; all the lawn is beset and darkened
under roses, and, from the leaves that tremble,
sleep of enchantment

comes descending. Here is a meadow pasture
where the horses graze and with flowers of springtime
now in blossom, here where the light winds passing
blow in their freshness.

Here in this place, lady of Cyprus, lightly
lifting, lightly pour in the golden goblets
as for those who keep a festival, nectar:
wine for our drinking.