X and Moments 歌词

	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

	zuo qu : 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

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