Century Magazine/Volume 48/Issue 1/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 intermittent 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!