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. ;)