Last night I slept with my window half-open;
When I woke, dawn sunshine was lighting the room
And I saw golden threads strung from window to frame.
In one night a spider, working, in darkness,
Had hung his home from the cliff of my window;
When I opened it fully, the shining threads snapped.
Windows must be opened and yet, oh my brother,
I am sorry to have broken your cunning artifice
For poets, in their way, are spinners like you.