Cyberians have been seen sneaking off
into the stacks, where pages yellow 'neath
forty watt light bulbs, where dust makes one cough,
where iron-wrought stairways shuttle the feet
upward into the library book beast.
Of course, it is quiet deep in the stacks.
Each book keeps so silent. Each book, a feast.
At last, a reader has come for a snack.
The numbers of Dewey identify
the aisle and shelf and the lucky prize --
but wait! -- what is this, a gold-embossed spine.
This looks even better, old and more wise.
One volume is plucked from high on the rack.
That book does not gloat, 'cause it will be back
