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Poem by William Blake Songs of Experience. The Fly Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brush'd 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. William Blake William Blake's other poems:
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