“The baker kneads; the weaver knits;The smithy plies the sun-bright steel;The potter turns; the farmer plants;The miller grinds his dusty meal.While I my quill in trembling handPen odes to please the fickle throng;The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song.”

“The baker kneads; the weaver knits;The smithy plies the sun-bright steel;The potter turns; the farmer plants;The miller grinds his dusty meal.While I my quill in trembling handPen odes to please the fickle throng;The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song.”

“The baker kneads; the weaver knits;The smithy plies the sun-bright steel;The potter turns; the farmer plants;The miller grinds his dusty meal.While I my quill in trembling handPen odes to please the fickle throng;The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song.”