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 ease;     I till my ground and prune my trees.     When ripened 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.