Art
I happen to really love the William Blake poem, "The Sick Rose," and have had bits of it stuck in my head lately, the first line in particular.
***
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.
***
I always think of "Black Magic" roses when I read it.
***
One day I will make a piece of art that does justice to the dark and gorgeous vision this poem conjures in my head.
***
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.
***
I always think of "Black Magic" roses when I read it.
***
One day I will make a piece of art that does justice to the dark and gorgeous vision this poem conjures in my head.