The Fly
Little Fly,Thy summer's playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away.
Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?
For I danceAnd drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.
If thought is lifeAnd strength and breathAnd the wantOf thought is death;
Then am IA happy fly,If I live,Or if I die.
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