I saw a spider sawing its web in the dark of night
Without a shred of beam or light
So pert and nimble was its act upon the arc of white
How swiftly it managed its routes over the perfect symmetry of delight
To me as child it looked like a harmless ruff of dame
Or sometimes like a white shroud of gnome
But to all the flies and insects around
Who would warn and inform of the deadly trap with no sound
No doubt the spider is a heinous genius artist
Who was never considered to be as such
Though its surpassing merits are constantly certified
By every housewife broom touch
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