A flower was
offer'd to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said "I've a Pretty Rose-tree",
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went
to my Pretty Rose-tree,
To tend her by day and by night
But my Rose turn'd away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
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.
