With her limpid voice,
Her pearly teeth revealing,
The northern maid, the prettiest child,
Sings “Downy grasses,” instead of “Blue water.”
Then, brushing her face with her long sleeve, she rises for your
sake.
She dances like the winter-cloud that curls over the frothy sea;
She dances like the wild fowl of Tartary, wind-blown toward the sky.
The kingly hall is full of radiant faces; the pleasure will not
end.
With sundown the flute sounds thicken, and the mellow voices of
the singing girls.