Two Poems by William Blake

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.

The CLOD & the PEBBLE

Love seeketh not Itself to please
Now for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

     So sung a little Clod of Clay
     Trodden with the cattles feet.
     But a Pebble of the brook,
     Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

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