Leave Crete,
Aphrodite,
and come to this sacred place
encircled by apple trees,
fragrant with offered smoke.

Here cold springs sing softly
amid the branches,
the ground is shady with roses,
from trembling young leaves,
a deep drowsiness pours.

In the meadows,
horses are cropping
the wildflowers of spring,
scented fennel blows on the breeze.