A Blake Moment

The Fly


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


-William Blake