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

I 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