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.