Little Fly

Little fly

The summer's play

My thoughtless hand

Has brushed away

Am not I

A fly like thee

Or art not thou

A man like me

Little fly

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

Little fly

Then am I

A happy fly

If I live

Or if I die