Filaments of an orb

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O 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 form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Although Walt Whitman is using the spider's web as a metaphor for the human search for meaning and connection, his admiration for its strength, length and ductility is spot-on. I can't believe anyone would fail to be wowed by this remarkable account of the qualities of spider silk. It really is worth reading and includes a riff upon the hypothetical possibility that 'a thread with the radius of 3cm could stop a Boeing 747 in full flight'.

In the orb-weaver's web the spokes of the wheel serve as runways for the spider while the sticky spiral traps its prey: nourishment for the arachnid body and the poetic mind, both.