A precious mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, … - Emily Dickinson
" "A precious mouldering pleasure 't 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
To 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.
English
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About Emily Dickinson
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the 19th century. Although she wrote (at latest count) 1789 poems, only a few of them were published in her lifetime, all anonymously, and some perhaps without her knowledge.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Birth Name:
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
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Additional quotes by Emily Dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
لأنني لم أستطع أن أوقفَ الموتَ
فإنه قد أوقفني بكل لطف؛
المركبةُ في موكب الموت
لم تحمل سوى أجسادنا
والخلود.
ببطء كنّا نقود العربة ،
فهو لا يعرفُ الاستعجال،
وكنتُ تركتُ و ا رءي
مشاغلي، وأوقات ا رحتي حتى
تأدبًا أمام لطفه.
مررنا بالمدرسة حيث يلعب الأطفال،
وحيث الواجباتُ المدرسية
ناد ا ر ما تُؤدَى؛
مررنا بالحقول
حيث سنابلُ الحبوبِ
تحدّق،
ومررنا بالشمس التي تغرب.
لبرهة توقفنا
أمام بيت بدا كأنه
مجردُ ورمٍ صغير في الأرض؛
السطحُ بالكاد يُرى،
والسورُ حوله
ليس إلا بعضَ ركام.
قرونٌ طويلة هي الحيوات
سوى أن كلَّ حياة منها
بدت أقصرَ من نهار
وأنا
خمّنتُ أن رؤوسَ الخيول
هي الأولى
في طريقها
نحو الأبدية.
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