Little Fly,                          For I dance,
     Thy summer's play                    And drink, & sing,
     My thoughtless hand                  Till some blind hand
     Has brush'd away.                    Shall brush my wing.

     Am not I                             If thought is life
     A fly like thee?                     And strength & breath
     Or art not thou                      And the want
     A man like me?                       Of thought is death;


                         Then am I
                         A happy fly,
                         If I live
                         Or if I die.