I
Was it when Kriemhild was queen
That we rode by ways forgotten
Through the Rhineland, dimly seen
’Neath a low moon white as cotton?
I, a knight? or troubadour?
Thou, a princess?—or a poor
Damsel of the Royal Closes?—
For, I met thee—somewhere sure!...
Was it ’mid Kriemhilda’s roses?
II
Or in Venice, by the sea?—
What romance grew up between us?
Thou, a doge’s daughter?—She,
Titian painted once as Venus?—
I, a gondolier whose barque
Glided past thy palace dark?—
Near St. Mark’s? or Casa d’Oro?—
From thy casement didst thou hark
To my barcarolle’s “Te oro”?
III
Klaia wast, of Egypt: yea,
Languid as its sacred lily.
Didst with me a year and day
Love upon the Isle of Philæ?
I, a priest of Isis?—Sweet,
’Neath the date-palms did we meet
By a temple’s pillared marble?
While, from its star-still retreat,
Sank the nightingale’s wild warble?
IV
Have I dreamed that I, thy slave,
From thy lattice, my sultana,
Beckoning, thy white hand did wave,
Dropped me once a rose? sweet manna
Of thy kiss warm in its heart?
That, through my Chaldæan art,
With thy Khalif’s bags of treasure,
From Damascus we did start,
Fled to some far land of pleasure?
V
Was I one? another thou?—
Let it be. What of it, dearest?—
Haply ’tis the memory now
Of these passions dead thou fearest?—
Nay! those loves are portions of,
Evolutions of this love,
Present love, where thou appearest
To combine them all and prove.