Ion
Already this radiant four-horse chariot, the sun, flames over the earth, and at this fire of heaven the stars
[85]
flee into the sacred night; the untrod Parnassian cliffs, shining, receive the wheel of day for mortals. The smoke of dry myrtle flies to Phoebus' roof.
[90]
The woman of Delphi sits on the sacred tripod, and sings out to the Hellenes whatever Apollo cries to her. But you Delphian servants of Phoebus,
[95]
go to the silver whirlpools of Castalia; come to the temple when you have bathed in its pure waters; it is good to keep your mouth holy in speech and give good words from your lips
[100]
to those who wish to consult the oracle. But I will labor at the task that has been mine from childhood, with laurel boughs and sacred wreaths making pure the entrance to Phoebus' temple,
[105]
and the ground moist with drops of water; and with my bow I will chase the crowds of birds that harm the holy offerings. For as I was born without a mother and a father,
[110]
I serve the temple of Phoebus that nurtured me.The attendants leave. Ion busies himself before the temple as he continues to sing.