In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night when only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed with all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light;
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charm upon the ivory stages
But for the common wages of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart from the raging moon
I write on these spin drift pages
Nor for the towering dead with their nightingales and psalms,
But for the lovers
Their arms around the griefs of the ages
Who pay no praise nor wages nor heed my art or craft.