Welcome back to The Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network.

I'm David Kern, and today is Thursday, May 14th, 2020.

Today I'm going to read you a poem by Walt Whitman, perhaps the American poet, the quintessential American poet.

Maybe he is, as Rupon referred to him as America's poet.

He is America, said Pound.

Whitman lived from 1819 to 1892, is probably most famous for his long work,

Leaves of Grass, and other poems like, Oh, Captain, My Captain.

At some point, I'd like to read to you when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed.

But it's quite long.

And so I'll save that.

But it's maybe my favorite Whitman poem, actually.

But the one that I am going to read to you today is much shorter.

It's only, what, ten lines?

It's called a noiseless patient spider.

It goes like this. A noiseless patient spider. It goes like this.

A noiseless patient spider I marked where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

marked how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding. It launched forth filament, filament, filament out of itself, ever unreeling them,

ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, oh my soul where you stand, surrounded, detached, in

measureless oceans of space, ceaselessly musing, venturing throwing, seeking the spheres to connect

them, till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold, till the gossamer thread

you fling, catch somewhere, oh my soul.

So this is a poem from around 1891.

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