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.
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.
You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
Made still a blund'ring kind of melody Spurr'd boldly on, and dashed through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in.
Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
And he who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but neer will reach an excellence.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories