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.

Words by Walt Whitman. Music (c) 1985 Jane Best.