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.
More verses by William Blake
- Mad Song
- The Little Black Boy
- Proverbs Of Hell (Excerpt From The Marriage Of Heaven And H
- The Two Songs
- Never Seek To Tell Thy Love