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 grieves in their arms,

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charmes

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most sacred 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 grieves of the ages

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

 

Dylan Thomas

Done