Summer is in full swing. It’s supposed to be a happy and carefree time. Apparently, poets don’t think so. Almost all the poems I found about July were sad and really long. So I decided to change my search from “July” to “Summer.” Still depressing.
Why don’t poets write happy summer poems? If I had to guess, I’d say that they were hot and many famous poets lived before the invention of air conditioning.
I did finally find a poem I’d like to share. It’s not happy, but it is short, and I like it. I hope your summer days are happier and cooler.
The Fly
William Blake – 1757-1827
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.