A cobweb hangs between a dark pine and another tree, lit by sunlight so it looks like a delicate skeleton or a fairy frame, fragile as words. The speaker marvels at how fine and carefully made it is, comparing its thread to the unseen line of speech and silence between two people. Then the poem turns uneasy: the spider that made this beauty is blotched and poisonous, a kind of monstrous god who can spin loveliness out of spit. Thinking of that silver web—and of love as something that unwinds and weaves people together—the speaker’s heart goes still. The closing question, “Love is lovely — isn’t it?” mixes wonder with doubt, as if beauty and danger cannot be separated. The mood is hushed, delicate, and faintly ominous.
Cobweb — Summary
It joins a dark pine to another tree; And shining through its bones a ray of sun Unearthed it like some graceful skeleton, Or an unfinished frame of faery As frail as words. Not even thought could be More carefully, more delicately spun — As fine a thread as that invisible one Of speech and silence between you and me.
The spider lurks there blotched and poisonous. He is the monstrous god who can at will Belch beauty from a stomachful of spit; And dreaming of that silver binding us, Which Love unwinds and weaves, my heart grows still And cries that Love is lovely — isn't it ?