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.

It 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