Over the last several months, I’ve enjoyed some good reading. I wouldn’t call myself an “avid” reader (maybe 10-12 books a year), but it’s enough that I would call myself a fan of books. (CLICK HERE to see what book supposedly best represents me and then take the quiz yourself.) The only problem is, when you’re a “fan of books” but not an “avid reader,” you tend to have more books than what you can keep up with actually reading.
Having said that, I came across this poem by Emily Dickinson sometime back entitled, “In a Library.” It really resonated with me and reminded me why I want to push myself to read more than I actually do.
In a Library
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.
