Алина Орлова Live Endless night Уильям Блэйк

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. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to endless night. Some are born to endless night, Some are born to sweet delight.