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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.