In my craft or sullen
Exercised in the still
When only the moon
And the lovers lie
With all their griefs in their armsI labour by singing
Not for ambition or
Or the strut and trade of
On the ivory
But for the common
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man
From the raging moon I
On these spindrift
Nor for the towering
With their nightingales and
But for the lovers, their
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or
Nor heed my craft or art.
