My Hand Is 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.