Little Fly

Little fly

The summer's play

My thoughtless hand

Has brushed awayAm not I

A fly like thee

Or art not thou

A man like me

Little flyFor I dance

And drink and sing

Till some blind hand

Shall brush my wingI thought is life

And strength and breath

And the want

Of thought is death

Little flyThen am I

A happy fly

If I live

Or if I die