The Beauty Of Zulaikha

Her face was the garden of Iram, where Roses of every hue are fair. The dusky moles that enhanced the red Were like Moorish boys playing in each rose-bed. Of silver that paid no tithe, her chin Had a well with the Water of Life therein. If a sage in his thirst came near to drink, He would feel the spray ere he reached the brink, But lost were his soul if he nearer drew, For it was a well and a whirlpool too. Her neck was of ivory. Thither drawn, Came with her tribute to beauty the fawn; And the rose hung her head at the gleam of the skin Of shoulders fairer than jasmine. Her breasts were orbs of a light most pure, Twin bubbles new-risen from fount Kafur, Two young pomegranates grown on one spray, Where bold hope never a ringer might lay. The touchstone itself was proved false when it tried Her arms' fine silver thrice purified; But the pearl-pure amulets fastened there Were the hearts of the holy absorbed in prayer.