For weariness my hand writes ill, My small, sharp quill runs rough and slow; Its slender beak with failing craft Puts forth its draught of dark, blue flow. And yet God's blessed wisdom gleams And streams beneath my fair-brown palm The while quick jets of holly ink The letters link of prayer or psalm. So, still my dripping pen is fain To cross the plain of parchment white, Unceasing at some rich man's call, Till wearied all am I to-night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...D.G.C. TO J.A by EMILY JANE BRONTE FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 by ALFRED TENNYSON ADLESTROP by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS |