And when it has grown too dark for you to see,
You close the book and wish for your dear Leigh:
Then comes a little bird, fluttering near,
And perches, fairy like, on the tip of your ear;
Then up you jump and would hunch it away;
But, spite of all, the little bird will stay,
And then——(But what I'm writing all this while
Is a fancy in my wild Ariosto style)—
And thus this little bird turns into me,
And you rush forward to me in ecstasy,