Little flower with golden heart,
Strange, sweet mystery thou art.
Who can tell the thoughts that lie
In the depths of thy dark eye!
Dost thou dream of other lands,
Waving palm-groves, burning sands,
Days of languor, twilights tender,
Glorious nights of Orient splendor?
Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss,
Art thou an immortal kiss
By some fair sultana breathed,
To all faithful love bequeathed
By the tiny-sandalled bride,
Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed?