Love

The youth he struck on the tambourine, And nought was so bright as its golden sheen; Of the hair of maidens twined together Its strings, which he struck with a falcon’s feather. The maid look’d down from the balcony, And thus to her inner self said she:—

“O heaven! what a noble youth is he! Would’st thou but give this youth to me, I would make of the garden-pinks his bed, I would lay fair roses under his head; And waked by perfume, with what delight Would he kiss the maiden’s forehead white!”