Burn rubies of Istakhar;

And pearls of the Jamshid race

Hang looped on your bosom's lace.

You stand like the letter I;

Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkle

Black stars in a rosy sky;

Mouth like a cloven peach,

Sweet with your smiling speech;

Cheeks that the blood presumes

To make pomegranate blooms.

With roses of Rocknabad,

Hyacinths of Bokhara,—

Creamily cool and clad

In gauze,—girls scatter the floor

From pillar to cedarn door.

Then a poppy-bloom at each ear,

Come the dancing girls of Kashmeer.

Kohl in their eyes, down the room,—

That opaline casting-bottles

Have showered with rose perfume,—

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