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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
National Poetry Month Day 4
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Not sure I understood that one. I'll read it again.
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Nope. Didn't get it. Ah, well; maybe the next poem will go better for me. I like this feature, BTW.