In purple haze the sun has set,
A tuft of palms, a Minaret,
⁠Rise clear against the sky.
The silence of the scented air
Stirs to a sense of evening prayer
⁠At the Muezzin's cry.

What care have I, that yesterday
I led thee as a slave away
⁠From Maroc's market-place?
Are we not all the slaves of love?
The very stars that wheel above
⁠Are bound by time and space!

I struck the fetters from thy hands
Only to forge thee stronger bands;
⁠Leastways, 'twas my desire
To hold thy captive soul to me,
Even as mine is chained to thee,
⁠By links of passionate fire.