An Eleventh Century Irish Poem

Colum Cille The Scribe

My hand is weary with writing,
My sharp quill is not steady,
My slender-beaked pen pours forth
A black draft of shining dark-blue ink.

A stream of the wisdom of blessed God
Springs from my fair-brown shapely hand:
On the page it squirts its draft
Of ink of the green-skinned holly.

My little dripping pen travels
Across the plane of shining books,
Without ceasing for the wealth of the great –
Whence my hand is weary with writing.

Tr. by Kuno Meyer

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About goodwriterspens
I restore fountain pens, and used to trade as redripple52 in eBay. I also have my own fountain pen sales website, www.goodwriterssales.com

2 Responses to An Eleventh Century Irish Poem

  1. Duncan says:

    Thanks for this. PLease find a link attached to another poem about writing by a great Irish writer.

    http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177017

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