William Blake

০১ লা মে, ২০১৪ রাত ১১:৫০

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 & sing;

Till some blind hand

shall brush my wing.

If thought is life

And strength & breath

And the want

Of thought is death.

Then am I

A happy fly,

If I live,

Or if I die.

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