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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.

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Wiersz The Fly - William Blake