I call to Amaethon, son of the riverflow,
brother of might and wisdom; friend of the farmer,
the ploughman, the shepherd, yours is the gift
of sunshine and rain, of a warm summer season,
a bountiful harvest, a larder well-filled.
Amaethon who nourishes the land on which we live,
on which we rely, yours is the furrowed field,
the good black soil and the seed within, yours is the might
that gilds the grain, that makes the apple to blush.
O god who draws life from the earth, god whose art
it is to cross into shadow and back again,
Amaethon, I praise your name, I honor your work.