Like to a crystal, which itself is clear. The hand is matchless both in charming shape And in the light which beauty gives to it. The Lord has given this hand the bracelet fair Of fascination that surrounds the wrist. Under that hand, by its desired caress, The country and the people rest subdued. Nor does the henna dye those fingers red, But naturally the tips are coralline. For each fair finger is a silver pen Which writes the winning verses of the heart. The hand is like the moon; the fist, the sun. The fingers are the pleasant beams they cast. And as the almighty Scribe their outline formed, So wrote he beauty in each finger nail. For like a rose-leaf is each finger nail, A rose-leaf that adorns the Rose’s stem; And as each nail is like the moon at full, Each fragment cut from them a crescent seems. Her bosom is a tablet crystal clear, A waterfall that gleams in Paradise. ’Tis the most glorious and the purest light That ever broke in waves from height of heaven. The feet are silver pillars, pedestals Supporting beauty’s palace, firm and fair. They soar like arrows to heaven’s highest throne; They stand twin graces ever side by side, And like an anchor is the steady foot, Holding in heaven the white moon’s argosy. XI THE SHAH PROVIDES A TEACHER FOR HIS DAUGHTER ROSE As in daytime does the moon appear, In beauty tender, yet but half revealed, So did the father see his daughter’s face Grow fair, and thanked his God by day and night. He watched her beauty with an anxious eye, And prayed it might to full perfection come. And brought a teacher, who might lead his child Along the path where knowledge could be plucked. He wrote upon a book of pages old As flame the precious lore which she should scan. Into her hand he placed the precious book; It was a new adventure for the Rose. And from the ancient tutor she began To read the lines of learning’s alphabet. Page after page the volume was explored, But all was dull and comfortless to her. She learned the history of Gulistan, She learned by heart the annals of Bostan, It soon had mastered all Vaharistan, She read the booke of history in Divan, Yet full of grace, her mind by no means dull, She had no skill in writing prose or verse. XII MORNING AND EVENING IN THE ROSE GARDEN