Spiders

The spider spins his silver thread With quiet industry, To weave himself a gossamer bed That breathes of artistry. Though wind and rain may come to tear His fragile world apart, Still with steady patient care He makes another start. Against such odds as would confound The minds of mortal men The spider weaves, without a sound, His world to rights again. So wrote one upon observing the activities of the spider. Its activities appear so useless, so futile, so frustrating. The writer...