A Song of the Pen

 Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, 
Not for the people's praise; 
Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, 
Claiming us all our days, 
Claiming our best endeavour -- body and heart and brain 
Given with no reserve -- 
Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain: 
Still, we are proud to serve.
 

Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, 
Gathering grain or chaff; 
One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, 
One, that a child may laugh.
 

Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, 
Freely she doth accord 
Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, 
Work is its own reward!

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