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...DEDICATION TO THE LATER SONNETS TO URANIA by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE ARCHITECT (2) by KAREN SWENSON UNDER THE WATERFALL by THOMAS HARDY THE BURNING OF THE TEMPLE by ISAAC ROSENBERG SONNET: 17 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE PRAYER by ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG ALL THIS by REBA MAXWELL AVERY |