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.