The Scribe

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.