This bower of roses and lilies, daffodils and daisies bursts
forth from the fragrant forest floor, an almost-garden in the woods. The sunbeams
that stream through high up leaf-gaps suffuse the whole scene with shimmering
tones that almost blind the eye with beauty. Beauty is her name, the woman in
white, flower-garlanded, who rests on the soft grass, central. Curled against
her is a creature most devoted, an animal, its
single horn resting lightly in her lap. Lazily, inspired by the moment's purity,
her doe-brown eyes (framed by hair so soft that no loom could weave it) lift
lightly and her lips (dark and warm as blood) part that she might murmur a reflection.
"Oh, true though it might be that I'm a lonely creature, more inclined to needlework and courtesy than any less ladylike endeavor, still I yearn for that one bauble, that glittering thing, that treasure unlike any other. I have seen it so many times now, in dreams and fantasies, even held it to my breast on rare occasion to feel it palpitate, as thought it were a heart. I have desired it for so long, it feels as though it's mine already, or should be, the dear thing. If only some kind prince would come along, retrieve it for me from whatever hazards may surround it; I should thank him so. Then send him on his way and here remain, and be the better for it. I do adore my roses."