And o'er her visage I beheld the curls of her black hair.
"Those curling locks, say, are they then a chain?" I said; said she:
"That round my cheek, a noose to take thy heart; aye, truly thine!"
The taper bright, her cheek, illumined day's lamp in the sky;
The rose's branch was bent before her figure, cypress-high;
She, cypress-like, her foot set down upon the fount, my eye,
But many a thorn did pierce her foot she suffered pain thereby.
"What thorn unto the roseleaf-foot gives pain?" I said; said she:
"The lash of thy wet eye doth it impart; aye, truly thine!"
Promenading, to the garden did that jasmine-cheeked one go;