describe the poetic technique of D.H.Lawrence in the poem Snake
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Snake by
D. H. Lawrence.
A snake came to my water-troughOn 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-treeI 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 gloomAnd trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone troughAnd 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
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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 earthOn the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.The voice of my education said to meHe 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 manYou 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-troughAnd depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Snake by
D. H. Lawrence.
A snake came to my water-troughOn 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-treeI 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 gloomAnd trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone troughAnd 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 earthOn the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.The voice of my education said to meHe 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 manYou 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-troughAnd depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,Into the burning bowels of this earth?
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