My world is like a chamber, narrow, –
It’s very low, very small.
In four its corners sit four fellows –
Four spiders, diligent in all.
They are all fat, adroit, and dirty,
And always spin and spin the web…
And it is awful – their portly,
Monotonous and even step.
With four their webs, when they were ready,
They spun the immense one, at last.
I watch their fat backs’ movement, steady,
In darkness of the stinking dust.
My eyes – under the webbing’s level:
It’s gray, and soft, and sticky, yet.
And they are glad with gladness, evil, —
Four spiders, fat.