William Blake

(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 / London)

The Fly - Poem by William Blake

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.


Comments about The Fly by William Blake

  • Gold Star - 4,860 Points Walterrean Salley (8/5/2012 10:25:00 PM)

    A perky little piec written with compassion. Blake had a right to be a happy fly, for he did not want for though. Enjoyed this immensely. (Report) Reply

    16 person liked.
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Read poems about / on: dance, strength, summer, happy, death, life



Poem Submitted: Wednesday, May 9, 2001



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