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Come, new-grown, ministering bough, of loveliest laurel, you who sweep the altar  under the temple of Apollo; you are from the immortal gardens, where the secred drops water the holy foliage of myrtle,  sending forth an ever-flowing stream. With this laurel I sweep the pavement of the god all day, along with the sun's swift wing, my daily service.  O Paean, O Paean, may you be fortunate, child of Leto!