English poem
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.
More by William Blake
- O brother Ijim, if it is thy voice that speaks to me
- O dear Mother outline of knowledge most sage
- O Ijim, I am faint and weary, for my knees forbid
- O Lapwing, thou fliest around the heath
- O sons of Trojan Brutus, clothed in war
- Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes
- Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race
- On F—— & S