What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall? If design govern in a thing so small.
Spider, spider, spin Your register and let me sleep a little, Not now in order to end but to begin The task begun so often.
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.
Then the law to him Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider; He makes it his dwelling, and a prison To entangle those shall feed him.
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