I. <br /> <br />When all the panes are hung with frost, <br />Wild wizard-work of silver lace, <br />I draw my sofa on the rug, <br />Before the ancient chimney-place. <br />Upon the painted tiles are mosques <br />And minarets, and here and there <br />A blind muezzin lifts his hands, <br />And calls the faithful unto prayer. <br />Folded in idle, twilight dreams, <br />I hear the hemlock chirp and sing, <br />As if within its ruddy core <br />It held the happy heart of Spring. <br />Ferdousi never sang like that, <br />Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay; <br />I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke, <br />And watch them rise and float away. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />The curling wreaths like turbans seem <br />Of silent slaves that come and go,— <br />Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime, <br />Whom I behead from time to time, <br />With pipe-stem, at a single blow. <br />And now and then a lingering cloud <br />Takes gracious form at my desire, <br />And at my side my lady stands, <br />Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,— <br />A shadowy shape, a breath of fire! <br /> <br />O Love, if you were only here <br />Beside me in this mellow light, <br />Though all the bitter winds should blow, <br />And all the ways be choked with snow, <br />'Twould be a true Arabian night!<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/latakia/
