William Blake - 1757-1827
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.
This entry was posted on Saturday, May 27th, 2023 at 11:46 pm and is filed under Classic Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
