To An Old Book

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.

by William White

Other poems of WILLIAM WHITE (2)

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