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?
Oh, oh, oh
Little fly
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
Oh, oh, oh
Little fly
Then am I
A happy fly
If I live,
Or if I die
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