The Fly, by William Blake, 1757 – 1827

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.

See–even when you’re sitting and absently watching a fly, you could think up a poem! Nothing wasted. ;)

summer prof 2014

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