by WilliamBlake
The Sick Rose
The Angel

The Fly

 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.
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