So rages the fight in the palmy vale!
But she is at home, preparing the meal;
With nectar of palms she fills the carafe,
And garlands with flowers the tent-pole staff.

From Persia's tide, the pearls so rare
She braids in her black and kinky hair,
With dangling feathers she spangles her brow,
And her neck and her arm with bright mussels now.

She sits down before the Belovèd's tent,
And hearkens how far the war-bugle went.
The mid-day burns and the sun doth sting:
The wreath, it wilts, but she sees not a thing.

The sun sinks down, and then triumphs the night;
Comes dew, and the light'ning bug's in flight.
In the tepid stream blinks the crocodile,
Like he wants to enjoy the cool awhile.

The lion is aroused with a predator's roar,
And elephants rummage the jungle floor.
Giraffes seek a peaceful shelter tonight,
Eyelids and flowers are closed up tight.

Her bosom rises and heaves with fear;
A bloodied and fugitive Moor draws near.
"Lost is the battle! Our hopes are oppressed!
Thy lover is captured, and brought to the west!

To the sea! He was sold to the White Ones there!"
Then she tumbles to earth and dishevells her hair,
She crushes the pearls with a trembling hand,
And her burning cheeks buries in burning sand.