PATIENT SPIDER

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.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892),
poema del libroLeaves of Grass (1900)