Destiny

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Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
  Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
  Drooped in a florist's window in a town.

  The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
  Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.

  The second rose, as virginal and fair,
  Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.

  The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,
  Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

© Thomas Bailey Aldrich