As the castle begins to stir, the petals to fall, the little bee to move and buzz on the clover blossom, she will look up at him through the mists and tag-ends of dream, a hundred years of dreams; and I wonder if, for a moment, she will think, “Is that the face I dreamed of seeing?” But by then I will be out by the midden heap, sleeping sounder than they ever did.
Sleeping Beauty
