Little Fly
　　Thy summer’s 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.