WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil,
The roses turn with envy pale,
And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain,
Send forth their fragrance like a wail.
Or if perchance one perfumed tress
Be lowered to the wind’s caress,
The honeyed hyacinths complain,
And languish in a sweet distress.
And, when I pause, still groves among,
(Such loveliness is mine) a throng
Of nightingales awake and strain
Their souls into a quivering song.