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Books by Whitman

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¹ 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.

² 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.

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