To An Old Book
Poem by William White
Enriched by gleaming gold design
And colour fresh yet old,
He treasures ours
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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