On the Vale of Bozaa, by Ahmed Ben Yousef Almenazy

THE intertwining boughs for thee
Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest,
And thou in turn shall give to me
A verdant couch upon thy breast.

To shield me from Day's fervid glare,
Thine oaks their fostering arms extend,
As, anxious o’er her infant care,
I've seen a watchful mother bend.

A brighter cup, a sweeter draught,
I gather from that rill of thine,
Than maddening drunkards ever quaffed,
Than all the treasures of the vine.

So smooth the pebbles on its shore,
That not a maid can thither stray,
But counts her strings of jewels o’er,
And thinks the pearls have slipped away.