Walter "Walt" Whitman | May 1819–Mar 1892 | American
from Leaves of Grass
| 1891
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 in the
spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd, till the docile
anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,
O my Soul.
design & layout: © 2020 RBC Solutions ⌘ updated:
07-Nov-2011 11:16 PM