Tuesday, 14 February 2012

by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

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.

1 comment:

LiNds said...

There's a big one outside our apartment that has a web all laid out some mornings... i have to be careful not to get caught! Yikes! This poem is a beautiful commentary on what the spiders are doing though and how we are also trying to connect and anchor to our space.