Thy waist is the gazelle’s, thy hue the rose,
Brocade from Franguistan thou art, my love!
If I compare thee to brocade, ‘twill fray;
If to a plane-tree, ‘twill be felled one day;
All girls are likened to gazelles thou’lt say—
How then shall I describe thee truly, love?
The violet is wild, and low of birth;
Rubies are stones, for all their priceless worth:
The moon itself is made of rocks and earth—
All flame, thou shinest like the sun, my love.