Song of the priestess of Apollo

This is the day when every sorrow is forgotten.

You Sisters, listen: the holy one is near.

The rustling of cypresses announces him,

And our duty beckons.

We sing to him our dark, resounding song,

So that his fine sun will shine thawing down;

We move around his white, pillared temple,

And each of us is robed like a bride.

Look below where the cool streams run;

There man and wife roam today in nakedness.

Blissfully they drink in the scents and sounds of the meadows,

And all gaze up into the blue heights.

And all rejoice, and all gather

This world's great blossoms of joy.

We, however, will bend down to take the fruit

that falls, golden, between dreaming and waking.

We bring it in a silver basin

To the temple, beside the spear and the shield.

We kneel down. Spread your fragrance, o fruit, and shine forth

to the people his glorified image!