poet-the fly

May 13, 2007 8:55pm CST
Little fly The 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.
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