Come to me here from Crete, /To this holy temple, where /Your lovely apple grove stands, /And your altars that flicker/ With incense. /And below the apple branches, cold /Clear water sounds, everything shadowed /By roses, and sleep that falls from /Bright shaking leaves. /And a pasture for horses blossoms /With the flowers of spring, and breezes /Are flowing here like honey: /Come to me here, /Here, Cyprian, delicately taking /Nectar in golden cups /Mixed with a festive joy, /And pour.
[Sappho]
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