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.
A COBWEB."The spider taketh hold with her hands."—Prov. xxx. 28.
![T](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6d/Poems_Eckley_T.jpg/48px-Poems_Eckley_T.jpg)
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 across
From heart to heart, oft knit some gap,
Till sympathy shall count no loss.
Like love-deeds are, which spun across
From 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.
That only discords knew before;
Say not the spider may not weave
A truth in cobweb at our door.