The Fly  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 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.

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