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.
 
 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.

Walt Whitman

Next