XXXVI.

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

They slid in streams into the stream,— It seemed like some infernal dream; They curved, and graceful curved across, Like graceful, waving sea-green moss,— There is no art of man can make A ripple like a rippling snake!