A SONG is but a little thing, <br />And yet what joy it is to sing! <br />In hours of toil it gives me zest, <br />And when at eve I long for rest; <br />When cows come home along the bars, <br />And in the fold I hear the bell, <br />As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars, <br />I sing my song, and all is well. <br /> <br />There are no ears to hear my lays, <br />No lips to lift a word of praise; <br />But still, with faith unfaltering, <br />I live and laugh and love and sing. <br />What matters yon unheeding throng? <br />They cannot feel my spirit's spell, <br />Since life is sweet and love is long, <br />I sing my song, and all is well. <br /> <br />My days are never days of ease; <br />I till my ground and prune my trees. <br />When ripened gold is all the plain, <br />I put my sickle to the grain. <br />I labor hard, and toil and sweat, <br />While others dream within the dell; <br />But even while my brow is wet, <br />I sing my song, and all is well. <br /> <br />Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, <br />My garden makes a desert spot; <br />Sometimes a blight upon the tree <br />Takes all my fruit away from me; <br />And then with throes of bitter pain <br />Rebellious passions rise and swell; <br />But - life is more than fruit or grain, <br />And so I sing, and all is well.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-and-his-song/
