The Sick Rose
WIlliam Blake 28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827

O Rose, Thou art sick
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
that flies in, in the howling storm,
has found out thy bed of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love doth thy life destroy

Epitaph
Samuel T Coleridge 1772–1834

Stop, Christian passer by!
Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast:
Beneath this sod a poet lies,
or that which which once seemed he

O, lift one thought in prayer for S T C
That he who many a year with toil of breath
found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise – to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ
Do thou the same!
Amen!