There fell the bouquet in which the lovely rose sat like a gem.
It felt the fullness of its in describable good fortune, the honour and splendour into which floated;
and as it touched the floor, it danced too, it sprang, and flew along the broads, breaking its stalk as it fell.
It did not come into the hands of the favourite, it rolled behind the scenes, where a scene-shifter took it up, saw how beautiful it was, how full of fragrance it was, but there was no stalk on it.
So he put it in his pocket, and when he went home in the evening it was in a dram-glass, and lay there in water the whole night.
Early in the morning it was set before the grandmother, who sat in her armchair, old and frail.
She looked at the lovely broken rose, and rejoiced in its beauty and its scent.