In My Craft or Sullen Art

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 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 spindrift 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.