This selfsame one—a bull, a chariot—doth burst through the fleece of sheep, hastening to the prize a thousandfold.

Him do the maidens of Trita—yea, the fingers—drive with stone, the droplet drawn for Indra’s draught.

This selfsame one is tended by the ten tawny maids, ever laboring, who make him fair for rapture’s sake.

He setteth himself amid the tribes of men, as doth a falcon to her nest, hasting as a lover to his maid.

This very draught, the joy-bringing sap, looketh down from on high— Heaven’s own child, the drop who entered the fleece.

And this same tawny draught, pressed for the cup, doth onward rush, neighing toward his own beloved womb.