When I behold

The mirror in the alcove,

Meseems,

It beams

Sweet days of old

When I had with me my Love.

A fiow’r-soft countenance rimm’d

With tresses, wavy, dark,

And collyrium’d eyes love-dimm’d,

And brow-deck’d vermil mark,

And betel-redden’d lips

Parted and showing

Teeth chisell’d pure, and set

Like tiny seeds glowing

In a pared pomegranate . . .

And henna’d finger-tips

Crowned with pearly nails,

The eyelids smoothening

And drawing velvet veils

O’er dimpl’d cheeks glist’ning.

It is her mirror . . .

The mirror in the alcove!

It has absorbed her soul,

And in its depths I see

Gleaming dream-tranquilly

That picture of radiant Love.