Thomas Bailey Aldrich

When all the panes are hung with frost, 
Wild wizard-work of silver lace, 
I draw my sofa on the rug 
Before the ancient chimney-place. 
Upon the painted tiles are mosques 
And minarets, and here and there 
A blind muezzin lifts his hands 
And calls the faithful unto prayer. 
Folded in idle, twilight dreams,