THE LILY
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
THE SICK ROSE
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed 5
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Patricio Contreras 