Dark the descent; the strong-winged birds are golden: they fly
aloft to heaven, enrobed in waters.
They have come hither from the seat of Order, and inundated
earth with streams of fatness.
Ye make floods rich in milk, make plants propitious, what time
ye stir, O golden-breasted Maruts!
Pour down your showers of vigorous strength and favour there
where ye sprinkle mead, O Maruts, heroes!
O Maruts, send ye down, streaming with water rain which, may,
filling all the sloping valleys,
Leap like a bold girl in a man's embraces, or like a matron
tumbled by her husband.
