A Syrian Memory

Do you recall that night at Kerf Hawar,
The still air fragrant with some soft perfume,
And the refulgent glory of one star
High in the sky above old Nimrod's tomb?

The gushing stream by which we loved to rove,
The slowly-rising moon's enamored tale,
And in the quiet of the poplar grove
The tuneful passion of the nightingale?

The wastes wide-reaching where the jackals cried,
And phantom figures seemed to come and go,
And o'er us, like a monarch in his pride,
Majestic Hermon with its crown of snow?

The slender maiden of mysterious guise,
The beauteous one who bore the water-jar,
And all the orient witchery of her eyes, —
Do you recall that night at Kerf Hawar?