April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

What am I, some kind of poetry dj? There was a request for Blake. I don't really love much by Blake, but this is one from a college English class that caught my eye. I've always liked that it's only two sentences long.


"The Sick Rose," William 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.