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.