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The Fly

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.

nu, man ļoti patīk viņa "Auguries of Innocence", bet tas ir briesmīgi garš psalms, ieskatam pāris rindiņas:

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

It is right it should be so
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.