Come to me from Krete to this holy temple,
here to your sweet apple grove,
altars smoking with
Cold water ripples through apple branches,
the whole place shadowed in roses,
from the murmuring leaves
deep sleep descends.
Where horses graze, the meadow blooms
spring flowers in the winds
breathe softly . . .
Here, Aphrodite, after gathering . . .
pour into golden cups nectar
Translation by Rayor