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 born. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BEST [THING IN THE WORLD] by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE PARADOX by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TO A CATY-DID by PHILIP FRENEAU THE AGED STRANGER; AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR by FRANCIS BRET HARTE PIONEERS OF DETROIT by LEVI BISHOP I KNOW A BROOK by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |