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 lauch'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