THE youth he struck on the tambourine,
And nought was so bright as its golden sheen;
Of the hair of maidens twined together
Its strings, which he struck with a falcon’s feather.
The maid look’d down from the balcony,
And thus to her inner self said she:—
“O heaven! what a noble youth is he!
Would’st thou but give this youth to me,
I would make of the garden-pinks his bed,
I would lay fair roses under his head;
And waked by perfume, with what delight
Would he kiss the maiden’s forehead white!”