“‘Death takes what man would keep,’ said the butterfly, ‘and leaves what man would lose. Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks. I warm my hands before the fire of life and get four-way relief.’ He glimmered like a scrap of owl-light on her horn.
‘Do you know what I am, butterfly?’ the unicorn asked hopefully, and he replied, ‘Excellent well, you’re a fishmonger. You’re my everything, you are my sunshine, you are old and gray and full of sleep, you’re my pickle-face, consumptive Mary Jane.’ He paused, fluttering his wings against the wind, and added conversationally, ‘Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart. I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name.'”
(Beagle, The Last Unicorn)