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!