She is young and very sweet,
From the silver on her feet
To the silver and the flowers in her hair;
And her beauty makes me swoon,
As the Moghra* trees at noon
Intoxicate the hot and quivering air.
Ah! I would the hours were fleet
As her silver circled feet,
I am weary of the daytime and the night;
I am weary unto death,
Oh my rose with jasmin breath,
With this longing for your beauty and your light
*A strong-scented flowering tree.