Her life is a revolving¹ dream Of languid and sequestered² ease； Her girdles and her fillets gleam Like changing fires on sunset seas； Her raiment is like morning mist, Shot opal, gold and amethyst³. From thieving light of eyes impure⁴, From coveting⁵ sun or wind's caress⁶, Her days are guarded and secure Behind her carven lattices, Like jewels in a turbaned crest⁷, Like secrets in a lover's breast.

    But though no hand unsanctioned dares Unveil the mysteries of her grace, Time lifts the curtain unawares, And Sorrow looks into her face . . . Who shall prevent the subtle years, Or shield a woman's eyes from tears？