Friday, 28 December 2007


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 launched 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

(Walt Whitman)

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