On a Blind Girl

Baha ad-Din Zuhayr

They call my love a poor blind maid:
I love her more for that, I said;
I love her for she cannot see
The gray hairs which disfigure me.

She is a garden fair where I
Need fear no guardian's prying eye;
Where, though in beauty blooms the rose,
Narcissuses their eyelids close.

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