Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book,

Boscan, ⁵ or Garcilasso;  ⁶ —by the wind

Even as the page is rustled while we look,

So by the poesy of his own mind

Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,

As if 't were one whereon magicians bind

Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,

According to some good old woman's tale.