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The Sick Rose by William BlakeO Rose thou art sick.The invisible worm.That flies in the nightIn the howling storm:Has found out thy bedOf crimson joy:And his dark secret loveDoes thy life destroy.
Not sure I understood that one. I'll read it again..........Nope. Didn't get it. Ah, well; maybe the next poem will go better for me. I like this feature, BTW.
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