Hear her anklets’ silver ring:
’Tis the swans that round her sing.
Mark the glory of her face:
’Tis the lotus lends its grace.
See the garb around her thrown;
Look and wonder at her zone.
Robes of maize her limbs enfold,
Girt with rice like shining gold.
Streams are white with silver wings
Of the swans that autumn brings.