And I said, “That maiden only
Of my ideal’s charms complete
Shall have power to lead me captive
And to bring me to her feet.”
Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart, the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of harmony?
Once more!—To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.—
We were playmates, she and I,
In that happy time gone by:
Oft we’d walk the meadows over
Hunting for the four-leaved clover