To An Old Book

Poem By William White

Enriched by gleaming gold design
And colour fresh yet old,
He treasures ours
The beauty
It wonders we behold,
Who scribed thee then in flowing hand
How long ago then wait
We see a cloistered abbey where
In silence monk would fib.
We feast our eyes, and marvel now
But priceless now to hold,
Thy hath given beauty yet
His name is left untold.

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Other poems of WILLIAM WHITE


Who sat beneath this tree
As I now sit below
Dwelling on a memory.
Of springtime long ago.

True Love

No earthly wind this bloom can bend
No earthly storm can rend,
Its heart is open to the sky
And touched by just a sigh.