The Song Of Princess Zeb-Un-Nissa In Praise Of Her Own Beauty

EN from my cheek I lift my veil,

The roses turn with envy pale,

And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain,

Send forth their fragrance like a wail.

Or if perchance one perfumed tress Be lowered to the wind's caress,

The honeyed hyacinths complain,

And languish in a sweet distress.

And, when I pause, still groves among, (Such loveliness is mine) a throng Of nightingales awake and strain Their souls into a quivering song.