WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil, <br />The roses turn with envy pale, <br />And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain, <br />Send forth their fragrance like a wail. <br /> <br /> <br />Or if perchance one perfumed tress <br />Be lowered to the wind's caress, <br />The honeyed hyacinths complain, <br />And languish in a sweet distress. <br /> <br /> <br />And, when I pause, still groves among, <br />(Such loveliness is mine) a throng <br />Of nightingales awake and strain <br />Their souls into a quivering song.<br /><br />Sarojini Naidu<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-princess-zeb-un-nissa-in-praise-of-h/
