Little Fly,
Thy summer's play If thought is life
My thoughtless hand And strength & breath,
Has brush'd away. And the want
Of thought is death,
Am not I
A fly like thee? Then am I
Or art not thou A happy fly
A man like me? If I live
Or if I die.

For I dance
And drink & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
-- William Blake, "The Fly"