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, 'The Fly' (1795)
This section of the website consists of mostly stuff that I did not do, but which I think is great and deserves publishing. You may not agree, but so it goes...
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