Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, <br />Not for the people's praise; <br />Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, <br />Claiming us all our days, <br />Claiming our best endeavour -- body and heart and brain <br />Given with no reserve -- <br />Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain: <br />Still, we are proud to serve. <br /> <br />Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, <br />Gathering grain or chaff; <br />One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, <br />One, that a child may laugh. <br /> <br />Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, <br />Freely she doth accord <br />Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, <br />Work is its own reward! <br /> <br /><br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-of-the-pen/
