Classic Poem

Habitant of castle gray,
Creeping thing in sober way,
Visible sage mechanician,
Skilfullest arithmetician,
Aged animal at birth,
Wanting joy and idle mirth;
Clothed in famous tunic old,
Vestments black, of many a fold,
Spotted mightily with gold;
Weaving, spinning in the sun
Since the world its course has run;
Creation beautiful in art,
Of God's providence a part,—
What if none will look at thee,
Sighing for the humming bee,
Or great moth with heavenly wings,
Or the nightingale who sings?—
Curious spider, thou'rt to me
Of a mighty family.

Tender of a mystic loom,
Weaving in my silent room
Canopy, that haply vies
With the mortal fabric wise;
Everlasting procreator,
Ne'er was such a generator.
Adam wondered at thy skill,
And thy persevering will,
That continueth to spin,
Caring not a yellow pin
For the mortals' dire confusion;
Sager in profound conclusion
Than astronomer at night,
When he brings new worlds to light.
Heaven has furnished thee with tools,
Such as ne'er a heap of fools
Have by dint of sweat and pain
Made for use, and made in vain.

When mild breeze is hither straying,
Sweetest music kindly playing,
Raising high the whispering leaves
And the covering of the sheaves,
Thou art rocking, airy thing,
Like a proud exalted king;
Conqueror thou surely art,
And majestical of heart.
There are times of loneliness
When a living thing we bless;
Times of miserable sin,
Cold without, and dark within;
Then, old spider, haply I
Seek thy busy factory;
Always finding thee at home,
Too forecasting e'er to roam;
So we sit and spin together
In the gayest, gloomiest weather.