“all their griefs in their arms”

In My Craft or Sullen Art
by Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art,
exercised by the still night,
when the moon rages
and the lovers lie abed
with all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light.

Not for ambition or bread,
or for 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 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.

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