The Snail

THE shell is, of the snail, the moving house,
Wherein he walks in dignity and pride;
And when he would be private and carouse
He folds himself about and goes inside.

And there he sits, reflecting on his homo,
The masterpiece of his ingenious mind,
A spiral and most convoluted dome,
Fit shelter for his head and his behind.

So he arises in the pearly dawn,
And makes his way at leisure, scorning time,
Across the gravel pathway and the lawn,
Weaving his slender gossamer of slime.

Proud horns bent forwards, and his eyes at gaze,
Still bearing like an oriflamme his shell,
And marveling what little rent he pays
For such a house, that fits his form so well.