Attar of rose

I knew not quite what I sought at
A winter bazaar in old Calcutta --
Terracotta, conch shell, a silken mat --
When I chanced upon the finest attar
Of rose in a crystal vial. A whiff
More giddying than opium milk; a sniff
And cities fell and crashed and burned.
Intoxicated, I returned
Infinitely to a joy olfactory,
Until at last the vial was spent!
I've plundered fen and glen; that scent
Eludes me in all but memory.
Had I perhaps been more restrained,
A vapor might have yet remained.