Happy Birthday, Bill

Today is William Blake's 250th birthday. He was a strange guy, prone to visions and odd behavior, but he wrote the first poem that opened up for me the multiple layers and unknowable depth of what poetry can be. He also produced wonderful and strange engravings for much of his work.

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
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Is this poem about the loss of innocense? Is it about sexuality? Is it about corruption and secrecy? Is it about safety and pleasure? Is it about a rose?