"Little 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

"Said the little boy ...."

The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, ‘Sometimes I drop my spoon.’

Said the little old man, ‘I do that too.’

The little boy whispered, ‘I wet my pants.’

‘I do that too,’ laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, ‘I often cry.’

The old man nodded, ‘So do I.’

‘But worst of all,’ said the boy, ‘it seems

Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.’

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

‘I know what you mean,’ said the little old man.

Shel Silverstein