To strange conceits oft I myself must own…
For otherwise the pleasures of the mind
Bear us from book to book,
From page to page.
Then winter’s night grows cheerful;
Keen delight warms every limb;
And ah! when we unroll
Some old and precious parchment,
At the sight
All heaven itself descends upon the soul!
Excerpt, the 1850 Swanwick translation.