little 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?

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