A noiseless, patient spider I marked

Where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated

Marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them–ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,



in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing

Seeking the spheres to connect them

Till the bridge you will need, be formed

Till the ductile anchor hold

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,

O my Soul

Walt Whitman, “Leaves of Grass”


1 Comment

  1. Hey, this is nice, just took a break to ponder

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