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.
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