Reminiscence

Though I am native to this frozen zone That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead; Though the cold azure arching overhead And the Atlantic's never-ending moan Are mine by heritage, I must have known Life otherwhere in epochs long since fled; For in my veins some Orient blood is red, And through my thought are lotus blossoms blown. I do remember . . . it was just at dusk, Near a walled garden at the river's turn (A thousand summers seem but yesterday!), A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk, Came to the water-tank to fill her urn, And, with the urn, she bore my heart away!