Ii

And she shook her locks at the morning-star, And her raiment fluttered wide; Then smiled above at his scimitar, And gazed around in pride: The pomegranate near, with its crown of flame, And the gemmed geraniums nigh, All bowed their heads at her whispered name, As she throned herself on high; While the fuchsia, under her silvery hood, Shrunk with a face like a bead of blood.