Little  fly
The  summer's  play
My  thoughtless  hand
Has  brushed  away
Am  not  I
A  fly  like  thee
Or  art  not  thou
A  man  like  me
Little  fly
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
Little  fly
Then  am  I
A  happy  fly
If  I  live
Or  if  I  die