Thy voice is soft, thy speech all sweetness flows;

May he protect who hath thy heart, my love!

Thy waist is the gazelle’s, thy hue the rose,

Brocade from Franguistan thou art, my love!

If I compare thee to brocade, ‘twill fray;

If to a plane-tree, ‘twill be felled one day;

All girls are likened to gazelles thou’lt say—

How then shall I describe thee truly, love?

The violet is wild, and low of birth;

Rubies are stones, for all their priceless worth:

The moon itself is made of rocks and earth—

All flame, thou shinest like the sun, my love.

Thy door I seek as pilgrims seek a shrine:

Thine eyes are roses, new-blown eglantine;

Thy tongue a pen, thy hands like paper fine,

A flower fresh from the sea thou art, my love!

Within my soul thy hand has placed love’s seed;

Thy wiles and coyness make my heart to bleed:

Thy Sayat Nova thou hast slain indeed,

Thine evil fate he bears for thee, my love.