THE FLY
THE FLY
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.
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