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“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 hand Pen odes to please the fickle throng; The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song.” — D. Alexander Neill
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 hand
Pen odes to please the fickle throng;
The greatest craftsman of them all,
Save only she who sings my song.