It is strange how a face may upset one's plans.

Gretchen's likeness to Phyllis, whom I loved, upset mine for many days to come.
As I gazed from my window the next morning I beheld the old innkeeper and Gretchen engaged in earnest conversation.

He appeared to be pleading, nay, entreating, while she merely shook her head and laughed.
Finally the old man lifted his hands to heaven and disappeared around the wing.

When I came down Gretchen was in the gardens culling roses.
She said they were for the table.
"Very well," said I; "give me one now." "You may have them all at the table." "But I shall not want them then." She gave me an enigmatical glance, then cut a rose for me which was withered and worm-eaten.
"Gretchen is unkind," I observed.
"What matters it whether the rose be fresh or withered?
It dies sooner or later.

Nothing lasts, not even the world itself.