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"