The Fly

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.

-William Blake (1757-1827)