Posted on Monday, 11 June 2001
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of hypertext lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the Regency December
And each separate dying ember wrought 'Cassandra' on the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my e-books surcease of sorrow - sorrow that there was no more -
From the rare and radiant author whom the angels took before -
Austen here forevermore.
And in the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each calico curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors only Catherine felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some Pemberlian entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was surfing, and so gently you came lurking,
And so faintly you came lurking, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams only Poe ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the whispered words, "Write more!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "Write more!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is Lizzy at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'T is Lizzy and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the door wide, there, to see what stood inside
In there swarmed a noisome Rabble that surfed the web when they were bored.
Not the least obeisance made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they;
But with a great cry, "Hey day!", set up camp upon my floor -
All around my shelves of Austen just inside my chamber door -
Drank their tea and nothing more.
Then this motley crowd beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the gay and sweet decorum of the countenance they wore,
"Though your mouse be worn and yellowed, you are surely not my fellows,
Fever-eyed, pale and sallow wandering from the Internet's shore -
Tell me what thy handle is on the Net's Slow-Loading shore!"
Quoth the Rabble, "Write us more!"
Much I marvelled at this ungainly crowd to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Rabble on his chamber floor -
Man and girl round the DVD's of Austen on the floor,
With such a name as "Write us more!"
But the Rabble sitting closely on the dirty rug, spoke only
Those few words, as if their souls in that one phrase did outpour.
Nothing farther then they uttered - not a chapter then they fluttered -
Til I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have camped before -
On the morrow they will leave me, as my hopes broke camp before."
Then the crowd said, "Write us more!"
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so oddly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "they come from some defunct bookstore
Bought from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his books one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Profit that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Six books only - nothing more."
But the Rabble still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I plopped a beanbag in front of folk, and shelves and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this earnest crowd before
What this gay, ungainly, gaunt and grinning crowd before
Me meant in croaking, "Write us more!"
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the crowd whose fevered eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
And my fingers at ease, lying, pen a scant inch before,
But whose pen scant inch before once a quill in days of yore,
She shall use, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the crowded floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of her lore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget she wrote no more!"
Quoth the Rabble, "Write us more!"
"Prophet!" said I, "things of cyber! - prophet still, who now enshrine her! -
Whether Tempter sent or whether Yahoo tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert page enchanted -
On this home page Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Are there - are there long lost novels? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quote the Rabble, "Write us more!"
"Be that word our sign of parting, man or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into Yahoo and the Net's Slow-Loading shore!
Speak naught of Sanditon, take thy sequels to perdition,
To your plea I'll no more listen! Quit the carpet upon my floor!
Take thy quill from out my heart, and take thy form from off my floor!"
Quoth the Rabble, "Write us more!"
And the Rabble, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
About the lonely shelf of Austen just within my chamber door;
And their eyes have all the seeming of an editor's that is dreaming,
Of an Austen book beteeming of Regent's shadow from before;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on my floor
Shall be lifted, if I write more?