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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

--D.H. Lawrence

From: Birds, Beasts and Flowers
* Note on Line-Breaks: This line may word-wrap with a screen resolution of 640 X 480 causing "trough" to appear on a separate line. It should be a continuation of the previous line.

Commentary:

Snake is one of Lawrence's most famous poems. In the poetry collection Birds, Beasts and Flowers, he gives brief category introductions. Under "Reptiles" he writes:
"Homer was wrong in saying, 'Would that strife might pass away from among gods and men!' He did not see that he was praying for the destruction of the universe; for, if his prayer were heard, all things would pass away--for in the tension of opposites all things have their being--"
(p. 348/Complete Poems/Penguin, 1993)
Lawrence is set in opposition to the snake in the above poem. They are having a face-off at the water-trough. There is also tension represented in Lawrence's divided feelings about the snake. He is both honored by the snake's presence and horrified. Even his actions are dialectic. He humbly waits for the snake to finish its drink and then aggressively throws a log at it in disrespect.

The snake, itself, is the ultimate symbol of the "tension of opposites." It is a king of the underworld and a lord of life. Snakes are a symbol of Mother Earth's female power, enlightenment, and wisdom.  It comes out as through "from the burning bowels of the earth / On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking."  Lawrence is imagining that the snake is descended from the mythological serpent Typhon.  Here is the myth of the volcano Mt. Aetna and Typhon:

Typhon was born from Gaia (Mother Earth) and Tartarus. TyphonThis was Gaia's youngest offspring, but by far the deadliest and the largest monster ever conceived. Its thighs were gigantic coiled serpents; its arms could spread across the heavens, and its head (in the shape of an ass's head) touched the stars. When it took flight, its wings blotted out the sun, and when it opened its mouth, out came burning boulders. Typhon was so frightful even the gods of Olympus refused to fight, fleeing instead to Egypt when Typhon attacked their mountain home. Each god disguised itself into an animal: Zeus transformed himself into a ram, Dionysus a goat, and so on. Aphrodite and Eros both disguised themselves as fish and swam up the Nile to escape the monster. Typhon was eventually defeated, due in large part to the brave and level-headed Athene, who convinced Zeus to take up his thunderbolts and make battle. Typhon actually captured Zeus and placed him in a cave, but Hermes and Pan were able to free him. To make a long story short, Zeus then took the battle to Typhon, chasing him to Sicily. There Zeus threw Mount Aetna at the monster, finally subduing it. But under the earth, the buried monster still spews up fire and boulders every so often. The ancient inhabitants used this myth to explain the activity of the volcano.
Snakes are associated with the mysteries of life, hence the snake in medical insignias. And yet it's also a "golden" venomous snake, an evil thing, a serpent in the Garden of Eden.

A snake sheds its skin and is reborn anew, just as Lawrence has shed his formal dress and confronts the snake in his pajamas. If only they could have held onto that "undressed or naked" wonder of two creatures meeting. But, alas, education and social conventions overruled--poisonous snakes must be killed and brave men should undertake the task. For the briefest moment Lawrence lacked the faith of his own intuition, and thus missed his chance "with one of the lords/Of Life."

Through this poem, Lawrence has illustrated his point about strife and the clash of opposites. The snake slithering away, "convulsed in undignified haste," and Lawrence standing in pajamas, rather ridiculous, with his empty water jug in hand--they both "have their being" and are made very real for us. The snake is first on the scene and the first to leave--regal and lordly throughout. Lawrence wonders why "petty" mankind always tries to rob the dignity from all Godly creatures.

--T. Ferris

"Gates"

By Randy "Tarkas" Hoar