What a happy coincidence!—She leafs through a “chronological” labyrinth of rhyme, and encounters a true anachronism: Whitman’s rhythmic measure; and our curious Speaker meanders impulsively into the coils of his silvery thread; suspending suspense as the gauze slithers in thin slivers of verse; a patient spider is he, not pouncing but pensively musing in feathers of fine resplendent line that he shan’t recant.
Oh DubyaDubya, your soul is a spider and the resplendent lines, the filaments, filaments, filaments, a verse that still seizes a moth-of-a-reader in inescapable awe—caught in your words, your filaments raw, she steps a weak foot on the bridge of your gossamer flings and flings down into measureless space, into the vast ocean of wordless pace, and pushing her down is your anchor that pulls as it holds and makes intimate folds in pearly threads of fine diaphanous verse. Your words commence play, and a happy incident indeed the feeling they breed.
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