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