I leave home, riding on the back of a white wolf. When we stop to rest in the forest, he asks me, “What would your father do if this forest belonged to him?”
“He would cut down the trees and turn it into a beautiful park and gardens, and he and his courtiers would come and wander among the glades in the summer time,” I say.
The thought makes me wistful, for if the forest belonged to my father, it would lose its secrets, and I would wear no wild flowers in my hair.