Front page of my journal, hanging on my wall

"The Fly"
William Blake

Little Fly,

Thy summer's 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,
Til some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life,
And strength is breath
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly
If I live,
or if I die.