[Turns to go in. Picks up a bit of paper]
'Tis what he wrote
And said 'twas nothing. O,—a pretty rhyme!
[Reads]
Thine eyes are on the stars, my Star!
Would I might be
That heaven far
With thousand eyes on thee!
He is a poet. Ay, 'tis but a rhyme.
And yet—'tis very pretty—I will keep it.