In A library. (By: Emily Dickinson)

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 scholar 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 sowm.

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


Comment:

It seems to me that this poem is also dedicated to a librarian who has lived his entire life inside a library.

The poet knows very well this mysterious librarian, they are old friends, they discussed of literature, they also traveled into the past with the book, they met Beatrice, then Sappho, Sophocles and Plato.
Their dream cannot be interrupted, it must carry on.