Arabian Poetry, by W. A. Clouston, , at sacred-texts.com
To shield me from Day's fervid glare,
Thine oaks their fostering arms extend,
As, anxious o’er her infant care,
I've seen a watchful mother bend.
A brighter cup, a sweeter draught,
I gather from that rill of thine,
Than maddening drunkards ever quaffed,
Than all the treasures of the vine.
So smooth the pebbles on its shore,
That not a maid can thither stray,
But counts her strings of jewels o’er,
And thinks the pearls have slipped away.