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!