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.
Ega says:
O Rose thou art still sick
Though the worm
Has come back to thy bed
But it kills her inside
Perhaps the others
Never know what’s going on
But Rose still tries to smile
"The Rose", are you?
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