The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art thou not
A fly 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 thou not
A fly like me?

• William Blake