Great Garden Poems, Part Five–The Sick Rose, by William Blake

Back to Blake’s garden again, where he and Catherine liked to hang out naked. I swear that I am fully clothed, as this one sounds like a really bad trip.

The Sick Rose

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

O Rose thou art sick. 
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.

I always hate it when those invisible worms show up. The only thing worse are invisible politicians.

Author: southernfusionfood

Writer, Woodworker, and Happy Eater

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