The Fly

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.