The Fly
William Blake
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away..
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?.
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing..
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,.
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.
- From the Songs of Experience -