24 acessos
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