THE FLY

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.