Of Modern Books

(A Pantoum) Of making many books there is no end, Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone; Each day new manuscripts are being penned, And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on. Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone, New volumes daily issue from the press; And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on— The prospect is disheartening, I confess. New volumes daily issue from the press; My pile of unread books I view aghast. The prospect is disheartening, I confess; Why will these modern authors write so fast? My pile of unread books I view aghast— Of course I must keep fairly up to date— Why will these modern authors write so fast? They seem to get ahead of me of late. Of course I must keep fairly up to date; The books of special merit I must read; They seem to get ahead of me of late, Although I skim them very fast indeed. The books of special merit I must read; And then the magazines come round again; Although I skim them very fast indeed, I can’t get through with more than eight or ten. And then the magazines come round again! How can we stem this tide of printer’s ink? I can’t get through with more than eight or ten— It is appalling when I stop to think. How can we stem this tide of printer’s ink? Of making many books there is no end. It is appalling when I stop to think Each day new manuscripts are being penned!