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 amibition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms
On 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 spendthrift pages

Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.