A precious mouldering pleasure 't is<br />To meet an antique book,<br />In just the dress his century wore;<br />A privilege, I think,<br /><br />His venerable hand to take,<br />And warming in our own,<br />A passage back, or two, to make<br />To times when he was young.<br /><br />His quaint opinions to inspect,<br />His knowledge to unfold<br />On what concerns our mutual mind.<br />The literature of old;<br /><br />What interested scholars most,<br />What competitions ran<br />When Plato was a certainty,<br />And Sophocles a man;<br /><br />When Sappho was a living girl,<br />And Beatrice wore<br />The gown that Dante deified.<br />Facts, centuries before,<br /><br />He traverses familiar,<br />As one should come to town<br />And tell you all your dreams were true:<br />He lived where dreams were born.<br /><br />His presence is enchantment,<br />You beg him not to go;<br />Old volumes shake their vellum heads<br />And tantalize just so.