Little Fly

The Fly

Little Fly
Thy summers 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.

William Blake

I first read an amended version of this poem in a book on genetics. It was only the first 2 stanzas and I have recently rediscovered this poem. The book was talking about fruit flies and how scientist studied them and their gentics. They found that they could pretty much make a fly be anything they wanted (changed the color added patterns, more wings more legs more eyes etc.) and could make them act any way they wanted (love the same sex, avoided light, loved light, active or slow). And kind implied that we are not so different. Well they more then kind of implied it. Sometimes I wonder how has fate conspired to write my genes and guide me with an unseen hand to act and be a certain way. Does our civilization, or our minds over power our genes, or is everything just biological.  Wiser people then I will have to answer that one.