William Blake

E T E R N I T Y

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the wingéd life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity´s sun-rise.

T H E F L Y

Little fly,
Thy summers play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thy ?
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 strenght and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly
If I live
Or if I die.