Little fly,
Thy summers 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.