You know the place: then br Leave Crete and come to us br waiting where the grove is br pleasantest, by precincts br br sacred to you; incense br smokes on the altar, cold br streams murmur through the br br apple branches, a young br rose thicket shades the ground br and quivering leaves pour br br down deep sleep; in meadows br where horses have grown sleek br among spring flowers, dill br br scents the air. Queen! Cyprian! br Fill our gold cups with love br stirred into clear nectar br br Sappho br tr.