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
William Blake
‘The Sick Rose’, although written in clear, plain language, is an enigmatic poem whose meaning remains difficult to pin down. Therein lies much of its haunting power.
I have so many roses in my garden at the moment; I only planted this one a few years ago, and finally this year, there are more than the one or two that I have been getting.
christina wilson sweet nothings 