William Blake : 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.

http://www.portablepoetry.com/poems...ke/the_fly.html

Это которое в финале "Овода" и в "Ночной тьме" Агаты Кристи.