The drops have surged along the path of truth, set firm upon its shining ground, the glorious ones discerning its course with wise delight.

Forth flows the stream—the very head of sweetness— diving through the mighty waters, to be praised as offering above all offerings.
Forth he fares, the foremost voice of speech, his yoke-fellow beside him; the bull hath bellowed into the wooden bowl, seeking his seat—for he is the rite made real.

When the poet doth gird himself with songcraft and manly might, and doth whirl about the fleece in haste, the steed of the sun strives ever to seize the light.
The self-cleansing one sitteth above his rivals, as a king above his tribes, when the wise in ritual stir him to his course.
Having encircled the fleece of sheep, the fair tawny one resteth in wooden bowls; his voice is rough, his thought keen—he longeth to prevail.

He goeth in rapture unto Vāyu, Indra, and the twin horsemen, his joy in step with sacred law.

The honeyed waves, through their bright washing, draw unto this place Mitra and Varuṇa, and Bhaga— by strength they are known and named.
Ye two Halves of the World, for our sake, win us the sweet prize:
seize us riches, seize us renown, and all good things.