Carry On Tuesday # 45

The Poet And His Song

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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.





Paul Laurence Dunbar was the first African-American poet to garner national critical acclaim. Born in Dayton Ohio, in 1872, Dunbar penned a large body of dialect poems, standard English poems, essays, novels and short stories before he died at the age of 33. His work often addressed the difficulties encountered by members of his race and the efforts of African-Americans to achieve equality in America. He was praised both by the prominent literary critics of his time and his literary contemporaries.