POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
His venerable hand to take,And warming in our own,A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when he was young.
His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind.The literature of old;
What interested scholars most,What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty,And Sophocles a man;
When Sappho was a living girl,And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified.Facts, centuries before,
He traverses familiar,As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were trueHe lived where dreams were born.
His presence is enchantment,You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize, just so.
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