The fly

Little fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd 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 die.