It is so calling out to me to write something similar–even though my hand is not weary with writing.
My hand is weary with writing;
my sharp great point is not thick;
my slender-beaked pen juts forth
a beetle-hued draught of bright blue ink.
A steady stream of wisdom springs
from my well-coloured neat fair hand;
on the page it pours its draught of ink
of the green-skinned holly.
I send my little dripping pen unceasingly
over an assemblage of books of great beauty,
to enrich the possessions of men of art—
whence my hand is weary with writing.
from Mary Jones’ website