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!