The sick Rose (W. Blake)

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.

___________
A Rosa doente

Rosa, estás doente!

O verme invisível,
Que voa na noite,
Na treva terrível,

Encontrou teu leito
De gozo escarlate;
E dele o secreto
Mau amor te abate.