With Her Graceful-Moving Form

With her graceful-moving form, a Cypress jasmine-faced is she?
Or in Eden's bower a branch upon the Lote or Tuba-tree?

That thy blood-stained shaft which rankles in my wounded breast, my love,
In the rosebud hid a lovely rose-leaf, sweetheart, can it be?

To the dead of pain of anguish doth its draught fresh life impart;
O cup-bearer, is the red wine Jesu's breath? tell, tell to me!

Are they teeth those in thy mouth, or on the rosebud drops of dew?
Are they sparkling stars, or are they gleaming pearls, that there I see?

Through the many woes thou wreakest upon Bâqî, sick of heart,
Is't thy will to slay him, or is it but sweet disdain in thee?