Classic Poem

“Have you seen the listening snake?”
Bramble clutches for his bride,
Lately she was by his side,
Woodbine, with her gummy hands

In the ground the mottled snake
Listens for the dawn of day;
Listens, listening death away,
Till the day burst winter's bands

Painted ivy is asleep,
Stretched upon the bank, all torn,
Sinewy though she be; love-lorn
Convolvuluses cease to creep.

Bramble clutches for his bride,
Woodbine, with her gummy hands
All his horny claws expands;
She has withered in his grasp.

“Till the day dawn, till the tide
Of the winter's afternoon.”
“Who tells dawning?—“Listen, soon.”
Half-born tendrils, grasping, gasp.