HE in mid-air's expanse hath golden tresses; a raging serpent, like the rushing tempest: Purely refulgent, knowing well the morning; like honourable dames, true, active workers.
Thy well-winged flashes strengthen in their manner, when the black Bull hath bellowed round about us. With drops that bless and seem to smile he cometh: the waters fall, the clouds utter their thunder.
When he comes streaming with the milk of worship, conducting by directest paths of Order Aryaman, Mitra, Varuṇa, Parijman fill the hide full where lies the nether press-stone.