I

In the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flow'd back with me,

            The forward-flowing tide of time;

And many a sheeny summer-morn,

Adown the Tigris I was borne,

By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,

High-walled gardens green and old;

True Mussulman was I and sworn,

      For it was in the golden prime

            Of good Haroun Alraschid.