The Scribe in the Woods
A hedge of trees surrounds me, a blackbird’s lay sings to me, praise I shall not conceal.
Above my lined book the trilling of the birds sings to me.
A clear-voiced cuckoo sings to me in a grey cloak from the tops of the bushes.
May the Lord save me from judgement; well do I write under the greenwood.
-Ninth Century, Old Irish