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?

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.