Dylan Thomas Poem

 In my craft or sullen art
 Exercised in the still night
 When only the moon rages
 And the lovers lie abed
 With 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 around the griefs of the ages
 Who pay no praise or wages
 Nor heed my craft or art.

 -- Dylan Thomas