Baad-e-Naseem

A Pretty Woman

• That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,                          And the blue eye
  Dear and dewy,                                                               And that infantine fresh air of hers!

• To think men cannot take you, Sweet,                        And enfold you,
  Ay, and hold you,                                                          And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

• You like us for a glance, you know—                          For a word’s sake
  Or a sword’s sake,                                                          All’s the same, what’re the chance, you know.

• And in turn we make you ours, we say—                  You and youth too,
  Eyes and mouth too,                                                     All the face composed of flowers, we say.

• All’s our own, to make the most of, Sweet—             Sing and say for,
  Watch and pray for,                                                      Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

• But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,             Though we prayed you,
  Paid you, brayed you                                                   in a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!

• So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:                 Be its beauty
  Its sole duty!                                                                 Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

• And while the face lies quiet there,                           Who shall wonder
  That I ponder                                                                A conclusion? I will try it there.

• As—why must one, for the love foregone,              Scout mere liking?
  Thunder-striking                                                          Earth—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
• Why, with beauty, needs there money be,              Love with liking?
  Crush the fly-king                                                        in his gauze, because no honey-bee?

• May not liking be so simple-sweet,                          If love grew there
  ‘Twould undo there                                                     All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
• Is the creature too imperfect,                                     Would you mend it
  And so end it?                                                              Since not all addition perfects aye!
• Or is it of its kind, perhaps,                                         Just perfection—
  Whence, rejection                                                        Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
• Shall we burn up, tread that face at once                  Into tinder,
  And so hinder                                                               Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
• Or else kiss away one’s soul on her?                        Your love-fancies!
  —A sick man sees                                                        Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
• Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose—        Plucks a mould-flower
  For his gold flower,                                                       Uses fine things that efface the rose:
• Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,                          Precious metals
  Ape the petals,—                                                           Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
• Then how grace a rose? I know a way!                      Leave it, rather.
  Must you gather?                                                          Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!