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,
… - 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 knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old
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.
I never hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars,— Only to fail again!
Bring me the sunset in a cup.
Go Premium
Support Quotewise while enjoying an ad-free experience and premium features.
