William Blake's The Fly

This has always been one of my favorite poems. But, since the last few days, I have not been able to get this poem out of my head...

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:
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.