These run for Indra—these drops, these eager draughts of soma, they bring delight and find the sun in their rising.

They drive back foes, they win broad room for him who presses, and of themselves they quicken life within the songful heart.

With mirth they move, as they will, unto one seat; the drops have flowed by many ways into the river’s swell.

Self-cleansing are they, and have seized all things of worth, spurred onward as a team yoked fast upon a chariot.

O ye drops, set the tawny seeker here within him— that he may teach the man who giveth naught to us.

As a craftsman fits a wheel anew upon a chariot, so bend your will to chasten him; make pure your flood till it gleameth bright.

These drops have bellowed loud; the steeds that win the prize have crossed the line— and stirred the mind of him who dwelleth truly here.