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Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


In a Library


A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasure Сt 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
o 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.



Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


Emily Elizabeth Dickinson's other poems:
  1. The Wife
  2. Rouge Gagne
  3. The Book of Martyrs
  4. Whether My Bark Went Down at Sea
  5. Belshazzar Had a Letter


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