Three Whitman Songs for mezzo-soprano and viola (or clarinet)

Simple and fresh and fair from winter's close emerging,
As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been,
Forth from its sunny nook of shelter'd grass -- innocent, golden, 
    calm as the dawn,
 ... 

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them -- ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, -- seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd -- till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.