We climbed one morning to the sunny height
Where chestnuts grow no more and olives grow;
Far-off the circling mountains cinder-white,
The yellow river and the gorge below.
“Turn round,” you said, O flower of Paradise;
I did not turn, I looked upon your eyes.
“Turn round,” you said, “turn round, look at the view!”
I did not turn, my Love, I looked at you.