A COBWEB."The spider taketh hold with her hands."—Prov. xxx. 28.
HE spider spins her subtle thread, And winds it off on reels of leaves,That hold their withered hands to stretch, And hang it on the golden sheaves.These filaments, from stem to stem, Like love-deeds are, which spun acrossFrom heart to heart, oft knit some gap, Till sympathy shall count no loss.
E'en bringing music out of souls That only discords knew before;Say not the spider may not weave A truth in cobweb at our door.
