（From the Persian）
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.