The Fly

Little Fly,Thy summer’s playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away.

Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?

For I dance,And drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.

If thought is lifeAnd strength and breath,And the wantOf thought is death;

Then am IA happy fly.If I live,Or if I die.