* * *^[1]

     [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;