O Rose, thou art sick!
The Invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
The Invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of Crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Of Crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
William Blake - The sick Rose
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