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

2 thoughts on “An Eleventh Century Irish Poem

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