This was not the beauty—oh, nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss!
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon Autumn’s soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there—giving warmth as it flies,
From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes.
When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace,
That charm, of all others, was born with her face!
And when angry—for even in the tranquillest climes,
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes,