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1 " I saw the spiders marching through the air,Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed dayIn latter August when the hayCame creaking to the barn. But whereThe wind is westerly,Where gnarled November makes the spiders flyInto the apparitions of the sky,They purpose nothing but their ease and dieUrgently beating east to sunrise and the sea; "
― Robert Lowell , Collected Poems
2 " The world is a clock winding down.I hear it in the wind’s icy fingers scratching against the window. I smell it in the mildewed carpeting and the rotting wallpaper of the old hotel. And I feel it in Teacup’s chest as she sleeps. The hammering of her heart, the rhythm of her breath, warm in the freezing air, the clock winding down. "
― Rick Yancey , The Infinite Sea (The 5th Wave, #2)
3 " Trust him. And when you have done that, you are living the life of grace. No matter what happens to you in the course of that trusting - no matter how many waverings you may have, no matter how many suspicions that you have bought a poke with no pig in it, no matter how much heaviness and sadness your lapses, vices, indispositions, and bratty whining may cause you - you believe simply that Somebody Else, by his death and resurrection, has made it all right, and you just say thank you and shut up. The whole slop-closet full of mildewed performances (which is all you have to offer) is simply your death; it is Jesus who is your life. If he refused to condemn you because your works were rotten, he certainly isn't going to flunk you because your faith isn't so hot. You can fail utterly, therefore, and still live the life of grace. You can fold up spiritually, morally, or intellectually and still be safe. Because at the very worst, all you can be is dead - and for him who is the Resurrection and the Life, that just makes you his cup of tea.” ― Between Noon & Three: Romance, Law & the Outrage of Grace "
4 " Mr. Edwards and the Spider" I saw the spiders marching through the air,Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed dayIn latter August when the hayCame creaking to the barn. But whereThe wind is westerly,Where gnarled November makes the spiders flyInto the apparitions of the sky,They purpose nothing but their ease and dieUrgently beating east to sunrise and the sea;What are we in the hands of the great God?It was in vain you set up thorn and briarIn battle array against the fireAnd treason crackling in your blood;For the wild thorns grow tameAnd will do nothing to oppose the flame;Your lacerations tell the losing gameYou play against a sickness past your cure.How will the hands be strong? How will the heart endure?A very little thing, a little worm,Or hourglass-blazoned spider, it is said,Can kill a tiger. Will the deadHold up his mirror and affirmTo the four winds the smellAnd flash of his authority? It’s wellIf God who holds you to the pit of hell,Much as one holds a spider, will destroy,Baffle and dissipate your soul. As a small boyOn Windsor Marsh, I saw the spider dieWhen thrown into the bowels of fierce fire:There’s no long struggle, no desireTo get up on its feet and flyIt stretches out its feetAnd dies. This is the sinner’s last retreat;Yes, and no strength exerted on the heatThen sinews the abolished will, when sickAnd full of burning, it will whistle on a brick.But who can plumb the sinking of that soul?Josiah Hawley, picture yourself castInto a brick-kiln where the blastFans your quick vitals to a coal—If measured by a glass,How long would it seem burning! Let there passA minute, ten, ten trillion; but the blazeIs infinite, eternal: this is death,To die and know it. This is the Black Widow, death. "