William Blake - Il roseto / My pretty rose tree

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said “I’ve a pretty rose tree,”
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

Mi venne offerto un fiore
tale che maggio mai portò
l’eguale;
ma dissi: “ho un bel roseto”,
e quel fiore soave disdegnai.
Tornai quindi al roseto
notte e giorno a curarlo; ma
la rosa
si volse con dispetto,
ed ebbi spine – unico diletto.