I CAN remember the morn upon Aya Sofia's dome,
The magical sheen of the morn, —
Allah il Allah!
Azure and rose and gold, and white like the flower of the foam,
Over the Golden Horn;
Allah il Allah!

I can remember the noon o'er the Minaret of the Bride,
The shimmering swoon of the noon, —
Allah il Allah!
And the scent of the orange groves, and the sparkle of Barada's tide,
And the nightingale's rapturous croon;
Allah il Allah!

I can remember the eve o'er the crumbling tombs of the kings,
The tremulous shades of the eve, —
Allah il Allah!
And the waving of palms by the Nile like the stir of mysterious wings,
And the rushes that murmur and grieve,
Allah il Allah!

I can remember the night o'er the wastes of the desert afar,
The violet vasts of the night, —
Allah il Allah!
And the rhythmical breath of the sands, and the pilgrims who steer by the star,
And the moon at its silvery height,
Allah il Allah!

I can remember the call, the call of the Faithful to prayer,
The quavering, wavering call, —
Allah il Allah!
And the heart of an exile goes out, and I long, oh, to be there!
I am bond; I am gyved; I am thrall
Allah il Allah!

Yes, the spirit harks back to its own, will follow the lure to the end,
The capturing, rapturing hope, —
Allah il Allah!
Till the dusk, inescapable, fall, and the ultimate darkness descend,
And the portals of Paradise ope,
Allah il Allah!