To Hebe

I call to Hebe, incomparable daughter
of dark-eyed Hera, cupbearer whose calling
it is to carry sweet drink to the blessed
gods, bride of splendid Heracles of whom great tales
are told. In your care is the food of the gods,
the fragrant ambrosia, the rich clinging nectar,
the delectable draught that sustains the deathless
ones. Hebe, white-armed girl, attendant on great Hera,
companion of charming Aphrodite, friend of
the lovely Graces, comrade of wise Harmonia.
In the vigor of youth we know your might, Hebe;
in the simple joy of childhood, the fair-haired bride
on her wedding day, the brightest blossoms of the field,
we see your face. Hebe, protector of the young,
singer of the songs of spring, I call to you.

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