Him have the soul-stirr’d poets tended, the prize-bearer in Aditi’s bosom, through the fair fleece and by the light of knowing.

Toward him have the kine lowed, the deathless one of a thousand streams, the drop divine, upholder of the sky.

Him have the wise in rite stirred forth by wit, he that purifieth himself in the heights, steadfast and a nourisher of multitudes.

Him have they moved between the twin arms by Vivasvant’s insight, he who is wrapped therein—the lord of speech, whom none deceive.

Him do the kindred fingers drive with stone upon the filter’s back— the tawny-hued, the fair-delightful one who draweth all eyes.

Thou, self-cleansing drop, waxed mighty by song, art stirred by the rite-wise as joy for Indra.