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.


I like the audio component to this, I may have to start doing the same on my work. Great poem
LikeLiked by 1 person
thanks
LikeLike
I like this poem very much! Thanks for sharing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re welcome.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for sharing this. I adore his paintings (colored prints) but I’m less familiar with his poetry. I use his images sometimes to illustrate my writing and people think they are something new and edgy. A cutting edge from the distant past.
LikeLiked by 1 person