Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Even as I thrilled at the exquisite juxtaposition of browsing and reading Poe’s gothic masterwork on my Nook’s ‘lectronic paper display, I thought I sensed a certain sinister susurration behind the dusty glass of my battle-scarred bookcase, a distinct and exaggerated looming quality to the weighty stack of books near my reading chair. . .
Do they know, I wonder? These dusty tomes Poe spoke of yonder,
That I’ve carted by the carton, shipped and carried by the score,
These weighty tomes of wooden marrow, that I’ve borne by the barrow,
Their words, themselves, a sparrow could convey unto my door.
`With this device,’ I marveled, `delivered to my waiting door -
Only words, and nothing more.’