Fly

Little Fly,
The summer's play,
My thoughtless hand
has brush'd away.
Am not I,
A fly like thee?
Or art thy thou,
A man like me?
For I dance,
and drink and sing,
Till some blind hand,
Shall brush my wings,
If thought is life,
strength and breath,
and the want,
Of thought is death,
Then am I,
A happy fly
if I live,
or if I die.