Emily Dickinson - A precious—mouldering pleasure (371) lyrics

A precious—mouldering pleasure—'tis— 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 pa**age back—or two—to make— To Times when he—was young— His quaint opinions—to inspect— His thought to ascertain On Themes concern our mutual mind— The Literature of Man— 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 Volume shake their Vellum Heads And tantalize—just so—