As in a glass hive my soul moved inside me,
a joyful bee-swarm
that, secretly increasing, seeks to release into the trees
its grapelike cluster.
And I felt the earth was crystal beneath my feet,
the soil transparent,
for the strong and peaceful bodies of ancient plane trees
rose up around me.
There the old wine was opened for me, smelling rich
in the oaken jar,
as mountain scents when the cool night dew
falls on the bushes.
Edmund Keeley and
Philip Sherrard, translation
The Greek Poets