The Fly

Little Fly

Thy summer's 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 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.