Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Ropewalk

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.