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THE FLY Little Fly Thy summers 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. William Blake (1757-1827), from Songs of Experience |
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