Casting Off

Through the lacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving the unwearied verdure. Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver! --pause!--one word!--whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck wherefore all these ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver! Stay thy hand! --but one word with thee! Nay--the shuttle flies--the figures float from forth the loom; the freshet-running carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we too, who look on the loom are deafened, and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it.
--Moby Dick