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.

by William Blake

Comments (2)

Very enjoyable...what though we live or die...be like a fly is a happy content....like a lot
A perky little piec written with compassion. Blake had a right to be a happy fly, for he did not want for though. Enjoyed this immensely.