In the midst of the woods a bird sang and sang,

And those who listened said he lacked good sense,

And went on in their ways, with an endless frown:

To them the bird sang on, with a gentle "Chum-chum!"

And the second came and said, "Why do you sing?

What good is your singing? Do you hear another sing?"

And the bird said, "I must sing, for I was born to sing."

And the third came and said, "What is this singing to?

What profit is there in singing? You are wasting your voice."

And the bird said, "I must sing, for it is in me."

The light of the lamp is spent,

The lamp is broken at last.

But its light was not spent.

It had been given to birds in their flight,

To butterflies in their quest,

To men in their hours of distress.

I am a singer.

Singing is my life.

Let me sing while I can.

Let me be true to my gift.

The bird does not sing because it is loved.

It sings because it has a song.