Under the shade of a olive tree
That flourishes at the top of the bay,
There opens a cave
Lovely and dark,
Where hover the nymphs
Who are called Naiades.
Inside, honeybees pour their golden liquor
In crates and vessels of polished rock,
While from lofty beams made out of stone
Where flowing waters constantly drip,
The Nymphs spin a tantalizing web
of seashell hue.
Twofold is the entrance to the cave:
One faces north, from where men descend,
The other faces south and it is more divine;
No man would get through,
but only the immortals do.