The Fly

[Excerpt form a book of poems by William Blake]

Little Fly Thy summer's play, My thoughtless hand Has brush'd away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance And drink & sing; Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength & breath; And the want Of thought is death;

Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.