torsdag 28 januari 2010

Ord för Känslan

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 sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.

Emily Dickinson


La Bibliofille (som ur Hjärtats Djup tackar BRUS)

4 kommentarer:

  1. Underbart vackert. Efter detta måste jag VERKLIGEN ta och kolla upp Emily Dickinson.

  2. Noémi: jag kände precis likadant!

  3. Lustigkulle: det är visst BRUS själv jag har den äran att språka med om jag inte missförstår alldeles. TACK!