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THE  FLY

by
William Blake
1793


&/\&/\&
 

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, & sing,

Till some blind hand

Shall brush my wing.
 

If 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.
 

&/\&/\&


 
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