The Fly Poem by 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.
Very enjoyable...what though we live or die...be like a fly is a happy content....like a lot
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 4:37:20 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Is Blake a philosopher? So enjoying to read this one!