The Winged Beetle

130 ROSA DECIDUA “ 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.”—BLAKE. ROSE of the World ! If so, then what a world ! What worm at its red heart lay curled From the beginning ? Plucked and torn and trampled And utterly corrupt is she That was the queen-flower unexampled In gardens goodlier than Arcady. O Thou ! whose body was my lyre, whose soul Lay on my mouth like a live coal ! This time thou hearest not my song ; thine ears Are stopped with worse than death ; And all this wasted breath Of mine—those songs of six most memorable years Of ecstasy and agony—may not attain To charm thy being into love again. . . .