In the narrow house of bone,
Like a spider, dwells the brain,
There it spins its web of thought
Back and forth and back again.
All eternity is caught
For a moment in that snare,
And enmeshed are earth and sea,
All the wheeling worlds are there.
But the spinner’s hour must be
Brief, his toil to no avail,
Stilled will be the busy brain,
And the slender web will fail.
Grief and ecstasy and pain,
All things seen, believed, and known,
Nothing of these will remain—
Only the enduring bone.