A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t is
\nTo meet an antique book,
\nIn just the dress his century wore;
\nA privilege, I think,<\/p>\n
His venerable hand to take,
\nAnd warming in our own,
\nA passage back, or two, to make
\nTo times when he was young.<\/p>\n
His quaint opinions to inspect,
\nHis knowledge to unfold
\nOn what concerns our mutual mind,
\nThe literature of old;<\/p>\n
What interested scholars most,
\nWhat competitions ran
\nWhen Plato was a certainty.
\nAnd Sophocles a man;<\/p>\n
When Sappho was a living girl,
\nAnd Beatrice wore
\nThe gown that Dante deified.
\nFacts, centuries before,<\/p>\n
He traverses familiar,
\nAs one should come to town
\nAnd tell you all your dreams were true;
\nHe lived where dreams were sown.<\/p>\n
His presence is enchantment,
\nYou beg him not to go;
\nOld volumes shake their vellum heads
\nAnd tantalize, just so.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"