Poems of William Blake

 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.