第29章 THE 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?

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.