septiembre 25, 2006

The Fly by William Blake

Little Fly
Thy summer´s play
My thouhgtless hand
has brush´d away.

Am I not
A Fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, & sing
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And stenght & breath
And the want
of of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly
If I live
Or if I die.

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