Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink ; sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength ; breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
