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William Blake

William Blake

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.

(1793)

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