living and dying

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed 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.

   −William Blake