Gold

All day the mallet thudded far below My garret, in an old ramshackle shed Where ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding head And rigid motions ever to and fro A figure like a puppet in a show Before the window moved till day was dead, Beating out gold to earn his daily bread, Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow. And I within my garret all day long Unto that ceaseless thudding tuned my song, Beating out golden words in tune and time To that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme. But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed, With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.