The Poet and his Song
Paul Laurence Dunbar 1872 (Dayton) – 1906
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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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 16, 2023
- 1:09 min read
- 191 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | aabbcdcD eeaafdfD gghhidiD jjkkhdhd |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 1,074 |
Words | 229 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8 |
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"The Poet and his Song" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/28937/the-poet-and-his-song>.
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