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
-William Blake
Songs of Experience
“The Fly,” Stanzas 1-3 (1795)
purpleborough 
And the sad thing is that the blind hand that brushes us away is so often someone with good ‘sight’.
(((hugs)))
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Indeed…so glad you stopped by!
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Ah ha–the infamous Blake! Enjoyed reading this again, Linda. My daughter and I walked by the lake with hundreds of flies yesterday. Some bit.
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Ouch, that hurts. They bite here if rain is on the way.
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