Fly, The

William Blake

 Little Fly,
 Thy summer's play
 My thoughtless hand
 Has brushed 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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