What is there seeming duller than this book,
This stolid volume of prosaic print?      
And yet it is a glass through which we look
    On wonderland and marvels without stint.
It is a key which will unlock the gate          
    Of distance and of time and circumstance,
A wand that makes the wires articulate      
      With hum of trade and whisper of romance!

    Somehow there is enchantment in each page--
        The whirl of wheels, the murmurs of the mart,
The myriad mighty voices of the age,          
                The throbbing of the great world's restless heart,--
      Such are the sounds this volume seems to store
  For him who feels the magic of its thrall,
Who views the vistas it unrolls before          
            His eyes that scarce can comprehend them all!

Here is the guide to all the vast extent          
        The wires have bound together, this will show
The way to help when need is imminent,      
        When terror threatens or when life burns low;
This brings the lover to his heart's desire,      
    That he may speak to her o'er hill and lea,
This is the secret of the singing wire,            
  To all the "world without" this is the key!

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