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A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman 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. —from Leaves of Grass, The Deathbed Edition Back to
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