The stalk fell by me, almost naked, stripped of its bloom.

For the second flower was faded, and had no sweetness nor life left in it.

Again her laugh sounded above me, and the casement closed.
I bent and picked up the stalk.

Was it her own mood she told me in the allegory?
Or was it the mood she knew to be in me?
There had been an echo of sorrow in the laugh, of pity, kindness, and regret: and the laugh that she uttered in giving the fresh bloom to the King had seemed pure derision.

It was my love, not hers, that found its symbol in the dying flower and the stalk robbed of its glory.