Soft art thou, O blest anitcha flower! but tenderer than thyself is she on whom my heart is set.

Thou becomest distracted whenever thou seest a flower, O my Heart! Thou thinkest that the flowers that look on all men can resemble her eye!

Her arm is as the bamboo; her body is as the tender leaf; her smile is a very pearl; the sweetest of odours is in her breath; and her eye is piercing as the lance.

The sky-blue flower despaireth of ever equalling her eye in beauty, and droopeth down its head whenever it looketh on her.

She hath adorned herself with anitcha flowers but hath not removed the stems from among them: alack! her waist will be crushed beneath the weight and will presently break!

The stars of the heavens wander from their spheres for that they cannot tell which is the moon and which her face.

But is there a spot in the face of this fair one even as in the moon which hath rounded up only today its deformities of yesterday?

Bless thee, O Moon! If thou canst shine like the face of this lovely one, I shall love thee in very truth.

If thou want, O Moon, to emulate the face of her whose eyes are like flowers, show not thyself unto all but shine alone for me.

Even the anitcha flower and swan’s down are as nettle to the feet of this fair one.