20 The Fly; 21 A Poison Tree

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.

William Blake

 

 

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

 

 Not much to comment on for the last four. All quite interesting and, like most poems, might have some underlying meaning, or not. The same could be said for why or how Daniel chose them.