by EDITH L.M. KING (1871-1962)

Between me and the rising sun,
This way and that the cobwebs run;
Their myriad wavering lines of light
Dance up the hill and out of sight.

Spider Webs and Dew Drops

There is no land possesses half
So many lines of telegraph
As those the spider-elves have spun
Between me and the rising sun.

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