VI: Again thou bringest thy dishevelled tresses thy face…

Again thou bringest thy dishevelled tresses thy face about:
Or the hyacinth, in the spring, disordereth its curled petals.

It must have been the insolence of the comb, and the wind's pertness;
For the locks of the dear one are not without cause deranged.

Look at them! what a wondrous moon-like circle are they!
The curls wreathed round the face of that gay, but imperious one.

To-day, from the arena, a new source of evil hath come;
Since thou hast brought the curls of dust upon thy face.

Like unto the comb, acquire a conception discerning;
For the ringlets of my rhymes a hair-like fineness have.

Although, from their exceeding length, they reach the ground,
Still, through coquetry, they place not their feet straight the path upon.

In what way shall Shaida become released from their noose,
When the curls, with a single hair, the lions of the forest bind?