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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.
Public Domain. From Songs of Experience. First published in 1794.
Can’t go wrong with Blake.
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I agree, Bart.
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I think this is the first time I’ve seen this particular Blake verse. Thank you.
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Thank YOU!
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I don’t think I ever read this one ( the burden of being a science major with one English class—Shakespeare ( loved it) It is so me worrying about whether I hurt an ant when I flicked it off my arm.
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