"Look at the Lote-tree, note on boughs arrayed * Like goodly
apricots on reed-strown floor,[FN#400]
Their morning-hue to viewer's eye is like * Cascavels[FN#401]
cast of purest golden ore."
And as saith another and saith right well,
"The Jujube-tree each Day * Robeth in bright array.
As though each pome thereon * Would self to sight display.
Like falcon-bell of gold * Swinging from every spray."
And in that garth grew blood oranges, as they were the
Khaulanján,[FN#402] whereof quoth the enamoured poet,[FN#403]
"Red fruits that fill the hand, and shine with sheen * Of fire,
albe the scarf-skin's white as snow.
'Tis marvel snow on fire doth never melt * And, stranger still,
ne'er burns this living lowe!"
And quoth another and quoth well,
"And trees of Orange fruiting ferly fair * To those who straitest
have their charms surveyed;
Like cheeks of women who their forms have decked * For holiday in
robes of gold brocade."
And yet another as well,
"Like are the Orange-hills[FN#404] when Zephyr breathes * Swaying
the boughs and spray with airy grace,
Her cheeks that glow with lovely light when met * At greeting-
tide by cheeks of other face."
And a fourth as fairly,