THE pressers from the Soma-press send forth thy juice for rapturous joy The speckled sap runs like a flood.

With strength we follow through the sieve him who brings might and wins the kine, Enrobed in water with his juice.

Pour on the sieve the Soma, ne’er subdued in waters, waterless, and make it pure for Indra's drink.

Moved by the purifier's thought, the Soma flows into the sieve: By wisdom it hath gained its home.

With humble homage, Indra, have the Soma-drops flowed forth to thee, Contending for the glorious prize.

Purified in his fleecy garb, attaining every beauty, he Stands, hero-like, amid the kine.

Swelling, as ’twere, to heights of Heaven, the stream of the creative juice Falls lightly on the cleansing sieve.

Thus, Soma, purifying himwho knoweth song mid living men, Thou wanderest through the cloth of wool.