Classic Poem

Slim snakes slid down from fern and grass,
From wood, from fen, from anywhere;
You could not step, you could not pass,
And you would hesitate to stir,
Lest in some sudden, hurried tread
Your foot struck some unbruiséd head:

It seemed like some infernal dream;
They slid in streams into the stream;
They curved and sinuous curved across,
Like living streams of living moss,—
There is no art of man can make
A ripple like a swimming snake!