Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

A Precious—mouldering Pleasure - Poem by Emily Dickinson


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 passage 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—

Comments about A Precious—mouldering Pleasure by Emily Dickinson

  • Gold Star - 36,299 Points * Sunprincess * (9/20/2015 7:38:00 PM)

    ......an enchanting poem, a pleasure ★ (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Rookie - 187 Points Angelina Holmes (5/5/2014 7:07:00 PM)

    Always a pleasure, Emily! (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: girl, dream, running

Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004

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