Damask and juniper.

Ten slave girls—like unto blooms—

Stand, holding tamarisk torches,

Silk-clad from the Irak looms;

Ten handmaidens serve the feast,

Each girl like a star in the east;

Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune,

Wait, each like the Ramadan moon.

For you in a stuff of Merv

Blue-clad, unveiled and jewelled,

No metaphor known may serve:

Scarved deep with your raven hair,

The jewels like fireflies there,

Blossom and moon and star,

The Lady Shemsennehar.

The zone that girdles your waist

Would ransom a Prince and Emeer;

[Pg 21]

In your coronet's gold enchased,

And your bracelet's twisted bar,

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