Little Fly,Thy summer’s playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away.Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?For I dance,And drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.If thought is lifeAnd strength and breath,And the wantOf thought is death;Then am A happy fly.If I live,Or if I die.
Suscribirse a:
Comentarios de la entrada (Atom)
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario