An angry fly within the brain Drones, as at a windowpane, Will not be gone, nor yet be caught, A hungry fly in form of thought. Although my day was surely spent In emptiness; though effort went To muted hours, still in a flood Through all my veins poured urgent blood; And while my mind in black defeat Lay prone, I heard my loud heart beat. I was alive. What paltry thing I did—the fly will ever sing— Shall burn as scarlet on the strange Pale lethargy of death's exchange. |