The Fly


William Blake

Little fly,

Thy summer's play

My thoughtless hand

Hath brushed away.

Am I not a fly like thee?

And art thou not a man like me?

For I shall dance, and play, and sing,

Till some thoughtless 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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