THE FLY
Reading edition
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.
