The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hands
Have 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 fly like thee,
Or art not thou
A man like me?

• William Blake