II.

And she shook her locks at the morning-star And her raiment scattered wide; Low laughed at a hollyhock's scimetar, Its jewels of buds to deride. The pomegranate near, with fingers of flame, The hot-faced geraniums nigh, Their proud heads bowed to the queenly dame For they knew her state was high: The fuchsia like a bead of blood Bashfully blushed in her silvery hood.