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: Canciones de Inocencia y de Experiencia, p. 126)
Perhaps they are right. However, I think they read too much into it, as it tends to happen to literary critics. I prefer to read it as a simple love poem. Actually, I think it is much more beautiful that way. The critics dissecting things to death once again?
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