51For the rest, when the golden sun has driven winter beneath the earth in rout and opened up the sky with summer light, at once they roam the glades and woods, harvest the bright flowers and lightly sip the surface of the streams. 55From this, glad with some sweetness I know not what, they cherish their offspring and nests; from this they skilfully forge fresh wax and mould clinging honey. 58From this, when you look up and see the swarm, released from the hives, floating towards the stars of heaven through the clear summer air, and marvel at the dark cloud trailing on the wind, watch closely: they always seek sweet waters and leafy shelters.
62Here sprinkle the prescribed flavours, bruised balm and the humble herb of honeywort, and raise a tinkling and shake the cymbals of the Mother around. 65of themselves they will settle in the scented resting place, of themselves they will hide away in the innermost cradle, as is their custom.