For some reason that made me think of the William Blake poem
The Sick Rose, from Songs of Innocence, Songs of Experience:
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.
Well, maybe not. The meaning of this poem is still hotly debated, but I'm sure it backs up my earlier statement.
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