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