The silken threads by viewless spinners spun, <br />Which float so idly on the summer air, <br />And help to make each summer morning fair, <br />Shining like silver in the summer sun, <br />Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one, <br />Are blown to east and west and fastened there, <br />Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare. <br />No sign which road doth safest, freest run, <br />The wingèd insects know, that soar so gay <br />To meet their death upon each summer day. <br />How dare we any human deed arraign; <br />Attempt to recon any moment's cost; <br />Or any pathway trust as safe and plain <br />Because we see not where the threads have crossed?<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crossed-threads/
