Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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 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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