The Fly

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 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.

William Blake