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

 WHEN 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.

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