William Blake

(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 / London)

My Pretty Rose Tree


A flower was offered 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 turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

Submitted: Wednesday, May 09, 2001

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