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Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
208. A Noiseless Patient Spider
| A NOISELESS, patient spider, | | | I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; | | | Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, | | | It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; | | | Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. | 5 | | | | And you, O my Soul, where you stand, | | | Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, | | | Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them; | | | Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold; | | | Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. | 10 |
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