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 strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am i
A happy fly,
If i live
Or if die.
