Robert Crawford - Insect.

We do not grasp ourselves, but still drift on
As aimless as a mote in the warm air,
Whose senses take the sweetness of the time,
And in a moment let existence go,
Its tiny death-squeak an indefinite thing
Recorded in the general ear of God.

Robert Crawford

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/insect-2/