He plucks the pretty ones 
So fresh upon the bloom, 
Yet wonders why they wane 
In darkness and in gloom 
Apart from root and love. 
Coveted to gild his room, 
Alone and withered until — 
Shriveled, he beheads to groom; 
The longest-lasting buds 
Wait in anguish for deplume, 
Forced to fade for forceful will 
To smell a dying perfume.