X and Moments

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;
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
And there’s grief of hunger, and grief of cold
And there’s a sort they call despair
There’s banishment from primitive lust
In the slightest sight of fundamental air