The Fly

Little Fly,

Thy summer's 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 strenght and breath,

And the want of thought is death;

Then am I

A happy fly

If I live

Or if I die.