The Fly

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.