Stripped bare the trembling flower-heart to beseech
The red, red rose your lips leaned low to reach
Unto my palm—the fingers thus bent back.
You said: “Now close your hand, quick! quick, Dear One!
I’ve sealed upon it there in Moorish guise
The rose-tree seal of Allah’s Paradise;
Should I be ever where you’re not, Dear One,
Like Life’s tree which by sacred Tesnim grew,
This rose shall bud and blossom—shelter you!”