"Blake was a poet and artist before he was anything else, and he worked as all writers and artists do, feeling his way through the medium (the words, the forms, the colours) to the truth.

He had the precious gift of expressing that complexity of thought in lines of unequalled force and limpid clarity:
It works as poetry always does, on the ear and in the mouth, before it lets itself be disentangled by the mind. There is some great poetry which works like that, but which when disentangled leaves little but a delicate fragrance."

from An English visionary
a tribute by Phillip Pullman writing in the New Statesman

The Sick Rose by 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.