I’m not so fond of spiders (or of most of the creepy-crawlies in God’s great creation and my old farmhouse). Even so, I have a grudging admiration for their talents.

I may scream and jump and insist on total annihilation, but there is a sort of fascination within me. Maybe someday I will have a young boy in my life who will win me over to the way of the bugworld completely. (My nephew, whose blog name is likely to be something related to farming and bug-obsession, though I haven’t yet found the right name, has been slowly pairing with the lovely Aunt (to me, Sister-in-law) Bug to catch my curiosity.)

This week, in honor of all the bugs (and especially {shudder} spiders) in my house, I found a poem by one of my favorite poets. He is, in fact, the first poet who ever inspired me enough to make me buy a whole book of poetry. (I don’t claim to have read it, though I tried, long ago, to go cover to cover. I made it to about page 100 before letting the dust settle on it for about a year on my nightstand. I have, since then, gotten married, and reshelved it twice. Maybe someday…)

Don’t forget the rest of the Poetry Friday round-up over at Semicolon’s place.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

by Walt Whitman

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.