Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!
These are the effects of doting age,--vain doubts and idle cares and over caution.
He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.