Come, the wood is secret
And alive. Day is not yet near.

Nobody blames you for hurrying
Back to Paris, and missing
Most of what takes place onstage.

For noble persons, madness seems to have been
A matter of custom--in the old romances.
Alas! I shall be mad, they say, and at once

His shadow in the frescos
Is the first admitted
Into a picture. Before this,

It should be entered from the old quarter
At its center, the easiest part to get lost in.
—It happened to many of us here, as children: