The soma-drops have swelled and surged—sweetly pressed where truth doth sit, most honeyed of draughts for great Indra.

The seers, filled with breath divine, have cried aloud— even as mother kine low unto their young— to Indra, that he might drink of soma.

He stirreth delight, he heedeth the poet’s breath; he abideth in his seat, where the river’s wave flows strong:

Soma is set upon the she-buffalo.

In the navel of the heavens he showeth his might, his far-seeing gaze cast down upon the fleece of sheep—

Soma, the wise bard, whose aim is good.

That soma which resteth in the tubs, that passeth through the woolen veil, doth clasp the holy drop.

The drop lifteth his voice upon the face of the deep, making glad the cask with honey’s own weeping.

He, the lord of woodland, whose praise is his own, bringeth forth the pressed wisdom through the mesh, driving the race of man onward.

And as he is driven, so Soma doth run—
the beloved path of the heavens he seeketh, wise bard, borne upon the stream of song.

O self-cleansing one, O drop, be thou near, thou who holdest riches shining in a thousand beams.