The Fly

A Poem




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?

  
 ~William Blake


© William Blake


Posted by Urban Growth KC at 11/26/2010 10:57 AM
Categories: Writing
Tags: william blake poetry william blake poetry fly poem nature poems insects
 

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