WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil, br The roses turn with envy pale, br And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain, br Send forth their fragrance like a wail. br br br Or if perchance one perfumed tress br Be lowered to the wind's caress, br The honeyed hyacinths complain, br And languish in a sweet distress. br br br And, when I pause, still groves among, br (Such loveliness is mine) a throng br Of nightingales awake and strain br Their souls into a quivering song.