My hand is weary with writing, My sharp quill is not steady, My slender-beaked pen juts forth A black draught of shining dark-blue ink. A stream of wisdom of blessed God Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand: On the page it squirts its draught Of ink of the green-skinned holly. My little dripping pen travels Across the plain of shining books, Without ceasing for the wealth of the great -- Whence my hand is weary with writing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMPELLED by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OCTAVES: 7 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON YOUTH'S IMMORTALITY by GEORGE SANTAYANA EGERTON MANUSCRIPT: 102 by THOMAS WYATT SONG: WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A' by JOANNA BAILLIE A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY |