Little fly

[Woe, alas! my guilty hand Brush'd across thy summer joy; All thy gilded, painted pride Shatter'd fled... del.]

1 Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My [guilty hand del.] thoughtless hand Has brush'd away.

[The cut worm Forgives the plow, And dies in piece, And so do thou del.]

2 Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

3 For I dance, And drink & sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

5 Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.

[4 Thought is life And strength & breath; And the want (of del.) Of Thought is death; del.]

4 If thought is life And strength & breath And the want [of del.] Of Thought is death;