There, ‘neath the shades of rose-panoplied walls,
Where moon-eyes maids woo day dreams’ tender thralls,
There I too learned to play In Allah’s holiday,
Ah, might it but last alway!
Sound of silver cymbal, Tambourine and timbal,
Struck by fingers nimble To some sweet lay;
Pretty tunes are tinkling, Tiny feet are twinkling,
Breath of rose-heart sprinkling ‘Neath cool fountains’ spray;
Lovely forms are swaying, Raven tresses straying,
Ev’ryone obeying Young god of May,
Flower petals gleaming, Garlands gayly streaming,
Tis but happy dreaming: Allah’s holiday.
Ah, could it last, could it last alway!