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A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promotory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding.
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, ot itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly, speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceselessly 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 filing catch somewhere, O my soul.
Bibliography
Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)