| A snake came to my water-trough |
| On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for
the heat, |
To drink there.
|
| In the deep, strange-scented shade of
the great dark carob tree |
| I came down the steps with my pitcher |
And must wait, must stand and wait, for
there he was at the trough before me.
|
| He reached down from a fissure in the
earth-wall in the gloom |
| And trailed his yellow-brown slackness
soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough |
| And rested his throat upon the stone
bottom, |
| And where the water had dripped from
the tap, in a small clearness, |
| He sipped with his straight mouth, |
| Softly drank through his straight gums,
into his slack long body, |
Silently.
|
| Someone was before me at my
water-trough, |
And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
|
| He lifted his head from his drinking,
as cattle do, |
| And looked at me vaguely, as drinking
cattle do, |
| And flickered his two-forked tongue
from his lips, and mused a moment, |
| And stooped and drank a little more, |
| Being earth-brown, earth-golden from
the burning bowels of the earth |
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna
smoking.
|
| The voice of my education said to me |
| He must be killed, |
For in Sicily the black, black snakes
are innocent, the gold are venomous.
|
| And voices in me said, if you were a
man |
You would take a stick and break him
now, and finish him off.
|
| But must I confess how I liked him, |
| How glad I was he had come like a guest
in quiet, to drink at my water-trough |
| And depart peaceful, pacified, and
thankless, |
Into the burning bowels of this earth ?
|
| Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill
him ? |
| Was it perversity, that I longed to
talk to him ? |
| Was it humility, to feel so honoured ? |
I felt so honoured.
|
| And yet those voices : |
If you were not afraid, you would
kill him !
|
| And truly I was afraid, I was most
afraid, |
| But even so, honoured still more |
| That he should seek my hospitality |
From out the dark door of the secret
earth.
|
| He drank enough |
| And lifted his head, dreamily, as one
who has drunken, |
| And flickered his tongue like a forked
night on the air, so black, |
| Seeming to lick his lips, |
| And looked around like a god, unseeing,
into the air, |
| And slowly turned his head, |
| And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice
adream, |
| Proceeded to draw his slow length
curving round |
And climb again the broken bank of my
wall-face.
|
| And as he put his head into that
dreadful hole, |
| And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing
his shoulders, and entered farther, |
| A sort of horror, a sort of protest
against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, |
| Deliberately going into the blackness,
and slowly drawing himself after, |
Overcame me now his back was turned.
|
| I looked round, I put down my pitcher, |
| I picked up a clumsy log |
And threw it at the water-trough with a
clatter.
|
| I think it did not hit him, |
| But suddenly that part of him that was
left behind convulsed in undignified haste, |
| Writhed like lightning, and was gone |
| Into the black hole, the earth-lipped
fissure in the wall-front, |
At which, in the intense still noon, I
stared with fascination.
|
| And immediately I regretted it. |
| I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what
a mean act ! |
I despised myself and the voices of my
accursed human education.
|
| And I thought of the albatross, |
And I wished he would come back, my
snake.
|
| For he seemed to me again like a king, |
| Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the
underworld, |
Now due to be crowned again.
|
| And so, I missed my chance with one of
the lords |
| Of life. |
| And I have something to expiate : |
A pettiness.
|
| D.H.
Lawrence |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
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