She bound her hair with a band of blue,
  And a garland of lilies sweet;
And put on her delicate silken shoes,
  With roses at her feet.

She clad her body in spotless white,
  With a girdle as red as blood. 
The glad white raiment her beauty bound,
  As the sepels blind the bud.

And round and round her white neck she flung
  A necklace of sapphires blue;
On one white finger of either hand
  A shining ring she drew.

And down the stairway and out of the door
  She glided, as soft and light,
As an airy tuft of a thistle seed
  Might glide through the grasses bright.

And into the garden sweet she stole—­
  The little birds carolled loud—­
Her beauty shone as a star might shine
  In the rift of the morning cloud.

The King’s son walked in the garden fair,
  And the little handmaiden came,
Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red,
  Like a sunbeam through a flame.

The King’s son marvelled, his heart leaped up,
  “And art thou my bride?” said he,
“For, North or South, I have never beheld
  A lovelier maid than thee.”

“And dost thou love me?” the little maid cried,
  “A fine King’s son, I wis!”
And the king’s son took her with both his hands,
  And her ruddy lips did kiss.

And the little maid laughed till the beaded tears,
  Ran down in a silver rain. 
“O foolish King’s son!” and she clapped her hands,
  Till the gold rings rang again.

“O King’s son, foolish and fooled art thou,
  For a goodly game is played: 
Thy bride is away with her lover last night,
  And I am her little handmaid.”

And the King’s son sware a great oath, said he—­
  Oh, the maiden’s heart is merry! 
“If the Earl’s fair daughter a traitress be,
The little handmaid is enough for me.” 
  Put on garments of white, my maidens!

The King’s son walks in the garden fair—­
  Oh, the maiden’s heart is merry! 
And the little handmaiden walketh there,
But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care. 
  Put on garments of white, my maidens!

ABU MIDJAN

Underneath a tree at noontide
  Abu Midjan sits distressed,
Fetters on his wrists and ancles,
  And his chin upon his breast;

For the Emir’s guard had taken,
  As they passed from line to line,
Reeling in the camp at midnight,
  Abu Midjan drunk with wine.

Now he sits and rolls uneasy,
  Very fretful, for he hears,
Near at hand, the shout of battle,
  And the din of driving spears.

Both his heels in wrath are digging
  Trenches in the grassy soil,
And his fingers clutch and loosen,
  Dreaming of the Persian spoil.

To the garden, over-weary
  Of the sound of hoof and sword,
Came the Emir’s gentle lady,
  Anxious for her fighting lord.