Beautiful olive-brown brows, chin where the fairy-print lies;

Vagrant dark tresses above splendid mysterious eyes;

Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of her face,

Girl of all girls in the world for mould and for color and grace.

Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the groves to and fro,

Ptolemy’s daughter; and so, breathing faint cassia and musk,

VeilÈd young Moors on divans, singing and sighing at dusk.

Never in opiate dreams have I o’ertaken you, sweet;

Never with henna-tipped hands; never with silken-shod feet;

Still the love-charm of the East must over and over be told:

By-and-by havoc with hearts!... Ah, slowly, my seven-year-old!