Classic Poem

A lazy loop of lozenged gray,
I stretch amid the sand and sun;
Or writhe a sullen yard away,
The greasewood's creeping shade to shun.

The hot earth nestles to my chin;
My lidless orbs outstare the sky
All unabashed; and dry and thin
My unawakened rattles sigh.

The desert glare that does to death
Pale human shirkers of the sun —
Poor fools that court a colder breath,
Nor know that heat and life are one —

It filters through my scaly still,
It simmers to one drop of Fate —
The mother-tincture of To Kill,
Quintessence of a whole world's hate.

Content I dream; content is deep
For whom three mortal joys there be —
My lord the Sun, my ardent sleep,
And — sleep for him that wakens me!