In that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,
         Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin and spin,
Backward down their threads so thin
         Dropping, each a hempen bulk.

At the end, an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor
         Light the long and dusky lane;
And the whirring of a wheel,
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel
         All its spokes are in my brain.

As the spinners to the end
Downward go and reascend,
         Gleam the long threads in the sun;
While within this brain of mine
Cobwebs brighter and more fine
         By the busy wheel are spun.

Two fair maidens in a swing,
Like white doves upon the wing,
         First before my vision pass;
Laughing, as their gentle hands
Closely clasp the twisted strands,
         At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of mountebanks,
With its smell of tan and planks,
         And a girl poised high in air
On a cord, in spangled dress,
With a faded loveliness,
         And a weary look of care.

Then a homestead among farms,
And a woman with bare arms
         Drawing water from a well;
As the bucket mounts apace,
With it mounts her own fair face,
         As at some magician's spell.

Then an old man in a tower,
Ringing loud the noontide hour,
         While the rope coils round and round
Like a serpent at his feet,
And again, in swift retreat,
         Nearly lifts him from the ground.

Then within a prison-yard,
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard,
         Laughter and indecent mirth;
Ah! it is the gallows-tree!
Breath of Christian charity,
         Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
Then a school-boy, with his kite
Gleaming in a sky of light,
         And an eager, upward look;
Steeds pursued through lane and field;
Fowlers with their snares concealed;
         And an angler by a brook.

Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas,
         Anchors dragged through faithless sand;
Sea-fog drifting overhead,
And, with lessening line and lead,
         Sailors feeling for the land.

All these scenes do I behold,
These, and many left untold,
         In that building long and low;
While the wheel goes round and round,
With a drowsy, dreamy sound,
         And the spinners backward go.