Leave Crete and sweep to this blest templeWhere apple-orchard's eleganceIs yours, and smouldering altars, ampleFrankincense.Here under boughs a bracing springPercolates, roses without numberUmber the earth and, rustling,The leaves drip slumber.Here budding flowers possess a sunnyPasture where steeds could graze their fill,And the breeze feels as gentle as honey...Kypris, here in the present blendYour nectar with pure festal glee.Fill gilded bowls and pass them roundLavinshly.
-Sappho
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