To the Rose upon the Rood of Time
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.
In the delving of my heart Where many thoughts abide, The vision of my heart Was taken in the light, Of the garden, where thou dwellest With tender view, That my heart may linger On the silence of the dew.
- William Butler Yeats