Cite
 
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.