Classic Poem

Spider,
At my window spinning,
Weaving circles wider, wider,
From the deft beginning;
Running
Rings and spokes, until you
Build your silken death-trap cunning,—
Shall I catch you—kill you?
Sprawling,
Nimble, shrewd as Circe;
Death's your only aim and calling.
Why should you have mercy?
Strike thee?
Not for rapine willful.
Man himself is too much like thee,
Only not so skillful.
Rife in
Thee lives our Creator.
Thou'rt a shape to hold a life in—
I am nothing greater.