My Hand Is Weary with Writing
My hand is weary with writing;
my sharp great point is not thick;
my slender-beaked pen juts forth
a beetle-hued draught of bright blue ink.
A steady stream of wisdom springs
from my well-coloured neat fair hand;
on the page it pours its draught of ink
of the green-skinned holly.
I send my little dripping pen unceasingly
over an assemblage of books of great beauty,
to enrich the possessions of men of artó
whence my hand is weary with writing.