Little fly
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
Man like me?

Little fly

For I dance
And drink, and sing
'Til 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