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Fly of Phantasmago
ria PB
Then am l A happy fly
Shall brush my wing
Little fly Thy summer's play
My thoughtless
hand
If thought is life And strength
Has brushed away
Am not I A fly like thee
If I live Or if I die
and breath And the want
Or arrt not thou
A man liike me
Of thought is death
For I dance And drink
and sing Till some blind hand
