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.