Tamar — Alas, my soul! Is this a question of yours,

or a certainty wrapped in modesty?

You are beauty's mirror: to your cheeks

the day retires at evening,

and on your amber hair the night

has dozed, in a lull of its journey,

and cast its shadow: so your eyelids darkened

and grew tender as a bird at dusk

that crowds the horizon, astray, and gathers

the wind in bewilderment and weariness;

till every glance of yours is a promise

of a meeting, and a shying away from meeting...

Herodias — (interrupting) And my brow, Tamar?

Tamar — A morning star!

Herodias — And my mouth?

Tamar — A cup of coral wine!

Herodias — And my lips?

Tamar — Strands of crimson beads

that some artist hid away!

Herodias — And my breasts?

Tamar — Two caskets of ivory!

Herodias — And my neck?

Tamar — A scepter!

Herodias — And my figure?

Tamar — An elder tree!

And when you gird the wrap about you, there is a hillock

of lilies and a terrace of daisies,

and it is as though your legs were the two pillars

of a temple whose making Lebanon lavished.