by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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.