The title comes from a Robin Hood ballad
118A.24 'I am wilfull of my way,' quoth Sir Guye,
'And of my morning tyde:'
'I'le lead thee through the wood,' quoth Robin,
'Good fellow, I'le be thy guide.'
I lean in closer to her as I talk, lowering my voice so that she has to stay put to hear. At this height I tower over her, but the way she commands me you'd hardly notice it. She makes no move to reciprocate my gesture except with her eyes, which she raises towards my face in something like defiance or trepidation - I can't tell which. It would be trying my luck to touch her now, let alone to kiss her, but oh, how it burns. The thought simmers between my lips. I wonder if there's any way to ever make her trust me, or if honesty will always be a casualty between us. She looks away for a second and my eyes close so that I can savor our nearness. I seek her scent like a keepsake and breathe her in; she is so close that I can almost taste her. She is sharp and she is bitter, but there's a calmness underneath, there's a sweetness there, and the closer I am, deeper I inhale, the better I can sense it. She smells like myrrh. If I had known this about her before I had returned from the Holy Lands, I would have made sure to bring back a scented trunk to lay her in.
I wish this moment could go on forever but inevitably, she pulls away from it. It's always she who does.