(...) a sigh, a very deep sigh, was heard right from the heart of the wild rose tree and from him who sat there-the Rose King. Do you know him? He is all beard, the finest reddish-green beard, and he is good to know. Go to the wild rosebushes, and when all the flowers have faded from them in autumn, and only the red hips remain, you will often find among them a large red-green moss flower; that's the Rose King. A little green leaf grows out of the top of his head; that's his feather. He is the only man of his kind on the rosebush; and it was he who sighed.
"Gone! Gone! The beautiful is gone! The roses have gone, and the leaves have fallen from the trees. It's wet here; it's rough here. The birds who sang are silent. The pigs go hunting acorns; the pigs are the lords of the forest."
Then a light shone from the house of the forester. It lighted up like a star and cast its long ray through the trees. A song sounded from within the house; beautiful children played there around the old grandfather. He sat with the Bible on his knee and read of God and the eternal life, and told them about the spring that would return, about the forest that would become green anew, the roses that would bloom, the nightingales that would sing, and the beautiful that again would sit upon the throne.
But the Rose King did not hear it; he sat in the cold, wet weather and sighed, "Gone! Gone!"