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A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,
His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.
His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.
There is no frigate like book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears the human soul !
Wikipedia article on “EMILY DICKINSON”:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickenson
“The Poems of Emily Dickinson” (Free eBook) from Asiaing.com. :
http://www2.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/dickinson/Dickinson-poems6x9.pdf
Grateful thanks to Asiaing.com and Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
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