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.
by William Blake
As a child, I had a small Autograph book, about four inches high by six inches wide, with a bold 1960s pattern on the cover. It was a popular pastime for young girls to run around and gather sayings and best wishes from friends and family, with the contributor writing and signing on the blank pages in the little book. It would keep children busy and on best behaviour, collecting bits of verse and sayings that were on offer from the visitors.
My Grandmother, Florence, wrote several poems in my Autograph book. This one has stuck in my mind over the years, though I do think she wrote down “hast” found out, and “Dost” thy life destroy. I’m fairly certain that Grandmother edited the grammar on this one, much like I do when I find things written one way and I want them to be another way. In searching online for this poem, written by William Blake, I kept looking for her version but, alas, ’twas not to be found.
This sad little poem is the lament of gardeners everywhere.
Gorgeous buds, beautiful leaves, splendid flowers, all subject to the ills that visit the land in the howling storm.
May our gardens grow and thrive this season, without too many visits by the hungry worm.
