THE SONG OF PRINCESS ZEB-UN-NISSA IN PRAISE OF HER OWN BEAUTY
(From the Persian)
When from my cheek I lift my veil, The roses turn with envy pale, And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain, Send forth1 their fragrance2 like a wail3.
Or if perchance one perfumed tress Be lowered to the wind's caress4, The honeyed hyacinths complain, And languish5 in a sweet distress6.
And, when I pause, still groves7 among, (Such loveliness is mine) a throng8 Of nightingales awake and strain Their souls into a quivering song.