You Know The Place: Then

Sappho

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

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