THE SONG OF PRINCESS ZEB-UN-NISSA

When from my cheek I lift my veil,

The roses turn with envy pale,

And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain,

Send forth their fragrance like a wail.

Or if perchance one perfumed tress

Be lowered to the wind's caress,

The honeyed hyacinths complain,

And languish in a sweet distress.

And, when I pause, still groves among,

( Such loveliness is mine ) a throng

Of nightingales awake and strain

Their souls into a quivering song.