by CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
IN my woodlot, one warm afternoon,
Was a long downward streak, so arrowy and sinuous
It looked continuous.
It flowed, it poured, it was gone,
Almost an illusion, a sham
Like a line in a diagram.
Clean as a flume it sped,
With a pinpoint eye in its head,
And hid unsociable in the honeysuckle brake
(Fearing the Biblical damn?)
But I was proud, and said
My snake — My Snake!