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Paul Laurence Dunbar - The Poet and his SongPaul Laurence Dunbar - The Poet and his Song
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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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