The Sick Rose
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
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.
A rose is sick, and we feel the speaker’s sad, intimate concern right away. The trouble isn’t visible on the surface — it comes from an “invisible worm” that flies at night, hidden in a howling storm. So immediately there’s a mood of secrecy, of something festering unseen.
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