Once upon a midnight dreary, While Blonde pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious post of forgetful lore,
While she nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at inspiration’s door.
“Tis some idle thought,” Blonde muttered “tapping at inspiration’s door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly she remembers it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly she wished the morrow; — vainly she had tried to borrow
From the posts surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Postor —
For the rare and radiant maidens whom their actions named Postor —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain clicking of each lettered keyboard
Thrilled her — filled her with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of her heart, she stood repeating
“'Tis some idle thougth entreating entrance at inspration’s door —
Some errant thought entreating entrance at inspiration’s door; —
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently her soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said she, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at inspiration’s door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here she opened wide the whore; —
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long she stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Postor!”
This she whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Postor!” —
Merely this, and nothing more.
Then back to the computer turning, all her soul within her burning,
Soon she heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said she, “surely that is something I’ll post here gratis;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis inspiration and nothing more!”
Typing here she posts with stutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
On here screen a stately message of the hamsters lords of yore;
Not the least obeisance made it; not an instant stopped or stayed it;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched amid inspriration’s door —
Perched amid the screen of Blonde’s inspiration’s door —
Perched, and stayed, and nothing more.
Then this purple message beguiling her sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy words be short and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient message wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven “Error404.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly message to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing this message on inspiration’s door —
Word or image upon the screen which works as inspiration’s door,
With such name as “Error404.”
But the message, sitting lonely on amid the screen, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered — not a keystroke then he fluttered —
Till she scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Quoth the raven “Error404.”
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said she, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy web master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure —
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —
That sad answer, “Error — 404.”
But the message still beguiling all her sad soul into smiling,
Straight she wheeled a cushioned seat in front of screen, inspiration’s door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, she betook herself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous hamster lore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous message of yore
Meant in showing “Error404.”
This she sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the words whose fiery glow now burned into her bosom’s core;
This and more she sat divining, with her head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the terminal-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the terminal-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, error404!
Then, shethought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Hamsters whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” she cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these hamsters he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Postor;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Postor!”
Quoth the message “Error404.”
“Prophet!” said she, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if cite or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the message “Error404.”
“Prophet!” said she, “thing of evil — prophet still, if cite or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the hamsters name Postor —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the hamsters name Postor.”
Quoth the raven “Error404.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, cite or fiend!” she shrieked, upstarting —
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no cache trace as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the screen, inspiration’s door!
Take thy words from out my heart, and take thy form from off my screen!”
Quoth the message “Error404.”
And the message, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the screen which served as inspiration’s door;
And his words have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the terminal-light through him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And her soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted? — Error404!
The authorities found her hunched on the floor on a velvet cushion eyes wide and unresponsive her posts gone unposted. The SDMB only showing “Error404”.
I’m sorry about the length. I started and could not stop. consider this Poe’s revenge, Blonde.
P.S. I tried to appologize for the lesbian theme that seemed to flow throught the first few stanzas. But I am unable to. The grin on my face won’t let me.
