THE SPIDER.
Sp . . . i . . . ders,—heugh!
Horrible forms that creep and crawl,
And hang their webs from ceiling and wall!
"As they joy in the breeze."
From leaf and fern as they joy in the breeze,
From moss-grown arch and ivy-clad trees,
And catch the flies—the poor little things—
That carelessly use their gossamer wings.
"Their beautiful nets."
It makes one shudder to think of the fate
That giddy bluebottles and gnats may await.
Yet wonder we must, as we watch them spread
Their beautiful nets with their silken thread;
"It makes me shudder to think of the fate
That giddy blue-bottles and gnats may await."
And happier feel at the sign of that Power
That guides each to weave such a fairy-like bower;
And think of that Hand, that no eye can see,
Which fashioned these Insects, and made you and me.
