The Poet and His Song

A song is but a little thing
And yet what joy it is to sing!
In hours of toil it gives me zest
And when at eve I long for rest;
When cows come home along the bars
And in the fold I hear the bell
As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars
I sing my song, and all is well

There are no ears to hear my lays
No lips to lift a word of praise;
But still, with faith unfaltering
I live and laugh and love and sing
What matters yon unheeding throng?
They cannot feel my spirit’s spell
Since life is sweet and love is long
I sing my song, and all is well

My days are never days of easе;
I till my ground and prune my trees
When ripenеd gold is all the plain
I put my sickle to the grain
I labor hard, and toil and sweat
While others dream within the dell;
But even while my brow is wet
I sing my song, and all is well

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot
My garden makes a desert spot;
Sometimes a blight upon the tree
Takes all my fruit away from me;
And then with throes of bitter pain
Rebellious passions rise and swell;
But—life is more than fruit or grain
And so I sing, and all is well