A Noiseless Patient Spider

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from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXX. WHISPERS OF HEAVENLY DEATH - by Walt Whitman.

  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, detached, 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.

 

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