How captivating is to me,
Sweet flower! thine own young modesty!
Though did I pluck thee from thy stem,
There’s none would wear thy purple gem.
I thought, perchance, that Ali Bey—
But he is proud and lofty—nay!
He would not prize thee—would not wear
A flower so feeble though so fair:
His turban for its decorations
Had full blown roses and carnations.