The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly

Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
To educate young spiders
She took me all apart.
My ghost came back to haunt her.
I saw her eat my heart.

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

Titian

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

On the Garden-wall

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Unpardonable Sin

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

What the Ghost of the Gambler Said

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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A Dream

I dreamed I was a spider;
A big, fat, hungry spider;
A lusty, rusty spider
    With a dozen palsied limbs;
With a dozen limbs that dangled
Where three wretched flies were tangled
And their buzzing wings were strangled
    In the middle of their hymns.

And I mocked them like a demon -
A demoniacal demon
Who delights to be a demon
    For the sake of sin alone;
And with fondly false embraces
Did I weave my mystic laces
Round their horror-stricken faces
    Till I muffled every groan.

And I smiled to see them weeping,
For to see an insect weeping,
Sadly, sorrowfully weeping,
    Fattens every spider's mirth;
And to note a fly's heart quaking,
And with anguish ever aching
Till you see it slowly breaking
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James Whitcomb Riley

The Spider And The Fly.

The sun shines bright, the morning's fair,
The gossamers float on the air,
The dew-gems twinkle in the glare,
The spider's loom
Is closely plied, with artful care,
Even in my room.

See how she moves in zigzag line,
And draws along her silken twine,
Too soft for touch, for sight too fine,
Nicely cementing:
And makes her polished drapery shine,
The edge indenting.

Her silken ware is gaily spread,
And now she weaves herself a bed,
Where, hiding all but just her head,
She watching lies
For moths or gnats, entangled spread,
Or buzzing flies.

You cunning pest! why, forward, dare
So near to lay your bloody snare!
But you to kingly courts repair
With fell design,
And spread with kindred courtiers there
Entangling tw...

Patrick Bronte

Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were)

        I. The Lion


    The Lion is a kingly beast.
    He likes a Hindu for a feast.
    And if no Hindu he can get,
    The lion-family is upset.

    He cuffs his wife and bites her ears
    Till she is nearly moved to tears.
    Then some explorer finds the den
    And all is family peace again.



        II.    An Explanation of the Grasshopper


    The Grasshopper, the grasshopper,
    I will explain to you: -
    He is the Brownies' racehorse,
    The fairies' Kangaroo.



        III.    The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies


    In fairyland the little boys
    Would rather fight than eat their meals.
    They like to chase a gauze-winged fly
    And catch and beat him till he ...

Vachel Lindsay

Ghosts in Love

    "Tell me, where do ghosts in love
    Find their bridal veils?"

    "If you and I were ghosts in love
    We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery,
    Above the sea of Wails.
    I'd trim your gray and streaming hair
    With veils of Fantasy
    From the tree of Memory.
    'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love
    Find their bridal veils."

Vachel Lindsay

The Flower of Mending

(To Eudora, after I had had certain dire adventures.)



When Dragon-fly would fix his wings,
When Snail would patch his house,
When moths have marred the overcoat
Of tender Mister Mouse,

The pretty creatures go with haste
To the sunlit blue-grass hills
Where the Flower of Mending yields the wax
And webs to help their ills.

The hour the coats are waxed and webbed
They fall into a dream,
And when they wake the ragged robes
Are joined without a seam.

My heart is but a dragon-fly,
My heart is but a mouse,
My heart is but a haughty snail
In a little stony house.

Your hand was honey-comb to heal,
Your voice a web to bind.
You were a Mending Flower to me
To cure my heart and mind.

Vachel Lindsay

The Spider And The Swallow.

^[1]

'O Jupiter, whose fruitful brain,
By odd obstetrics freed from pain,
Bore Pallas,^[2] erst my mortal foe,^[3]
Pray listen to my tale of woe.
This Progne^[4] takes my lawful prey.
As through the air she cuts her way,
And skims the waves in seeming play.
My flies she catches from my door, -
'Yes, mine - I emphasize the word, -
And, but for this accursed bird,
My net would hold an ample store:
For I have woven it of stuff
To hold the strongest strong enough.'
'Twas thus, in terms of insolence,
Complain'd the fretful spider, once
Of palace-tapestry a weaver,
But then a spinster and deceiver,
That hoped within her toils to bring
Of insects all that ply the wing.
The sister swift of Philom...

Jean de La Fontaine