XXXI

4 0 00

XXXI

He smiled at self, and, smiling, show’d his teeth,

And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more;

Lifted his eyebrows, spurn’d the path beneath,

Show’d teeth again, and smiled as heretofore,

Until he knock’d at the magician’s door;

Where, till the porter answer’d, might be seen,

In the clear panel more he could adore,⁠—

His turban wreathed of gold, and white, and green,

Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen.