Little Fly

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?

Oh, oh, oh
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

Oh, oh, oh
Little fly

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