If I compare thee to brocade, ’twill fray;
If to a plane-tree, ’twill be felled one day;
All girls are likened to gazelles thou’lt say--
How then shall I describe thee truly, love?

The violet is wild, and low of birth;
Rubies are stones, for all their priceless worth:
The moon itself is made of rocks and earth--
All flame, thou shinest like the sun, my love.

Thy door I seek as pilgrims seek a shrine:
Thine eyes are roses, new-blown eglantine;
Thy tongue a pen, thy hands like paper fine,
A flower fresh from the sea thou art, my love!

Within my soul thy hand has placed love's seed;
Thy wiles and coyness make my heart to bleed:
Thy Sayat Nova thou hast slain indeed,
Thine evil fate he bears for thee, my love.