Little Fly

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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

Little fly



For I dance

And drink and sing

Till some blind hand

Shall brush my wing






I thought is life

And strength and breath

And the want

Of thought is death

Little fly



Then am I

A happy fly

If I live

Or if I die
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