THE SCRIBE
(From the Early Irish)
| For weariness my
hand writes ill, My small sharp quill runs rough and slow; Its slender beak with failing craft Gives 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. |