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Poetry corner
 
 
The Fly  by  William Blake
 
Little Fly   
Thy summerís 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 and sing
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
 
If thought is life
And strength and 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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