LVII
Then the magician solemnly ’gan to frown,
So that his frost-white eye-brows, beetling low,
Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown
Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
Forth from his hood that hung his neck below
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
Touch’d a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow,
Charm’d into ever freezing, lay an old
And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.