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.

By JSkeletonRocks,

Image Credit: Liza C., Seattle, WA

The other day I spotted a rose
Dripping sorrow unto the rainy night
Velvet blackened with death a large dose
My kiss of sunshine will heal its might

My rose of dead beauty floundered away
Down a dark bitter path between the shops
I humbly followed, my heart led astray
The alley led with blood like coral drops

Feasibly her fill of death was too great
For I watched her faint upon her ruin
Was my fair rose gone? So frail and lightweight?
Hence, her lovely corpse never did stir again

Young she was, gone without once having lived
Her promising scent down a road untread.

A Red, Red Rose

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June,
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

— Robert Burns,