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
