Song | X and Moments |
Artist | Enslavement of Beauty |
Album | Mere Contemplations |
作曲 : Ole Alexander Myrholt ... | |
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 |
zuò qǔ : Ole Alexander Myrholt ... | |
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 |