Classic Poem

Great Ceres, now that the seed is sown, we, the rustic band, dance in unskilled chorus in your honour. Grant that no soaking rain rot the seed, no heavy frost crumble the furrows. Let no sterile crop of useless oats arise, no weed that harms the fair harvest. May the gusts of Eurus not crush the thick standing corn to the earth; may no hail break it; may no greedy birds and beasts of the earth steal the grain.
May the fields return plentifully and with large increase the seeds we have trusted to the well-tilled soil.
So be it. And now we pour forth the narrow-waisted beakers of white milk, and of honey mingled with mellow wine. Let the sacrifice be led three times about the sown fields before the slain beast falls by the sacred altar. And now the rites are ended. After the reaping new honours shall be offered you, and sweet-smelling garlands shall bind your braided hair.