The Full Text of “Snake”
1A snake came to my water-trough
2On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
3To drink there.
4In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
5I came down the steps with my pitcher
6And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
7He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
8And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
9And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
10And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
11He sipped with his straight mouth,
12Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
13Silently.
14Someone was before me at my water-trough,
15And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
16He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
17And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
18And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
19And stooped and drank a little more,
20Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
21On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
22The voice of my education said to me
23He must be killed,
24For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
25And voices in me said, If you were a man
26You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
27But must I confess how I liked him,
28How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
29And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
30Into the burning bowels of this earth?
31Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
32Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
33Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
34I felt so honoured.
35And yet those voices:
36If you were not afraid, you would kill him.
37And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
38But even so, honoured still more
39That he should seek my hospitality
40From out the dark door of the secret earth.
41He drank enough
42And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
43And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
44Seeming to lick his lips,
45And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
46And slowly turned his head,
47And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
48Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
49And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
50And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
51And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
52A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
53Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
54Overcame me now his back was turned.
55I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
56I picked up a clumsy log
57And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
58I think it did not hit him,
59But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in an undignified haste,
60Writhed like lightning, and was gone
61Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
62At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
63And immediately I regretted it.
64I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
65I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
66And I thought of the albatross,
67And I wished he would come back, my snake.
68For he seemed to me again like a king,
69Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
70Now due to be crowned again.
71And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
72Of life.
73And I have something to expiate:
74A pettiness.
The Full Text of “Snake”
1A snake came to my water-trough
2On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
3To drink there.
4In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
5I came down the steps with my pitcher
6And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
7He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
8And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
9And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
10And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
11He sipped with his straight mouth,
12Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
13Silently.
14Someone was before me at my water-trough,
15And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
16He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
17And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
18And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
19And stooped and drank a little more,
20Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
21On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
22The voice of my education said to me
23He must be killed,
24For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
25And voices in me said, If you were a man
26You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
27But must I confess how I liked him,
28How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
29And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
30Into the burning bowels of this earth?
31Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
32Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
33Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
34I felt so honoured.
35And yet those voices:
36If you were not afraid, you would kill him.
37And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
38But even so, honoured still more
39That he should seek my hospitality
40From out the dark door of the secret earth.
41He drank enough
42And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
43And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
44Seeming to lick his lips,
45And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
46And slowly turned his head,
47And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
48Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
49And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
50And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
51And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
52A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
53Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
54Overcame me now his back was turned.
55I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
56I picked up a clumsy log
57And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
58I think it did not hit him,
59But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in an undignified haste,
60Writhed like lightning, and was gone
61Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
62At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
63And immediately I regretted it.
64I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
65I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
66And I thought of the albatross,
67And I wished he would come back, my snake.
68For he seemed to me again like a king,
69Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
70Now due to be crowned again.
71And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
72Of life.
73And I have something to expiate:
74A pettiness.
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“Snake” Introduction
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"Snake" is one of the best-known poems from D. H. Lawrence's nature-themed collection Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923). At first glance, it tells a simple anecdote: the speaker finds a poisonous snake drinking from the water-trough in his yard, watches it for a while, then throws a log at it just as it's retreating into the hole it came from. But beneath this mundane surface, a deep psychological conflict unfolds. The speaker reacts to the snake with a complex mixture of fear, reverence, and resentment; intellectually, he believes he should kill it because it's dangerous, while emotionally, he feels both challenged and "honoured" by its presence. In the end, he deeply regrets the "pettiness" of his halfhearted attempt to hurt the creature. In its indirect way, the poem explores masculine insecurity, the connection between awe and resentment, and humanity's destructive drive to dominate nature.
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“Snake” Summary
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A snake came to drink at the water trough in my yard, on a day so hot that I was wearing pajamas to stay cool.
In the dark, funny-smelling shade of the huge, dark carob tree, I walked down my steps, carrying a water pitcher, and had to stand around waiting at the trough, because the snake had gotten there first.
The snake slithered down in the shade from a crack in the mud wall; slid his soft, loose, yellow-brown body over the rim of the stone trough; and flattened his head against the stone bottom. He drank from the little pool of clear water around the tap, sipping through his gums into his horizontal slit of a mouth, noiselessly taking the water into his long, loose body.
He had beaten me to the trough, and I had to wait, like a latecomer.
He raised his head from the water, the way cows do, and gave me a distracted look, the way cows do while drinking. He shot his forked tongue out, thought for a second, bent down, and drank some more water. He was brown as soil, having come from the hellish depths of the earth on this July day in Sicily, as smoke rose from Mount Etna.
The rational voice inside me said, You have to kill him, because in Sicily, it's the black snakes that are harmless and the yellow-brown snakes that are poisonous.
Voices in my head taunted me: If you were a real man, you'd grab a stick and kill him right now.
But do I have to admit how much I liked the snake? How happy I was that he'd arrived quietly, like a houseguest, to sip from my trough—and go peacefully, satisfied, without thanking me, back down into the hellish underground?
Was I a coward for not wanting to kill him? Was I an eccentric for wanting to speak with him instead? Was I humble because I felt honored by his presence? (I did indeed feel very honored.)
Still, the voices inside me said: If you weren't scared, you'd kill him.
And I really was scared, very scared—but more than that, honored that he'd come from the dark, hidden underground to seek me out as his host.
He finished drinking and raised his head, dazed, as if he'd been drinking liquor; darted his forked tongue, which was black as night; and seemed to lick his chops. He gazed at the air around, aloof as a god; turned his head around slowly, as if asleep three times over; then curved his body around and slithered back up the cracked earthen wall.
And as he slid into his awful hole—slowly reared up, as if shrugging, and poked his head down farther—a kind of disgust, a revulsion against his disappearing into that terrible pit, purposely descending into that darkness and taking his long body with him, filled me now that he was turned in the other direction.
I glanced around, set down my water pitcher, grabbed a bulky log, and hurled it toward the trough, where it landed with a crash.
I'm pretty sure it missed the snake, but now the part of him still above ground trembled, awkwardly hurrying; whipped around in a flash; and vanished into the dark hole, the dirt-rimmed crack in the wall. I gazed at the hole, mesmerized, in the silent, blazing noon heat.
Right away, I wished I hadn't thrown the log. I scolded myself: how petty, how lowly, what a shabby thing to do! I hated myself and the educated, rational voices inside me.
I thought of the albatross from the poem "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"—which hangs like a curse around the sailor who kills it—and I wished my snake would return to my yard.
Because now I thought of him again as royalty: an exiled king from the underworld, gone back to reclaim his crown.
That's how I botched my encounter with one of the kings of Nature. And now I have to atone for my small-minded meanness.
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“Snake” Themes
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Fear, Awe, and Male Insecurity
The speaker of D. H. Lawrence's "Snake" tells a psychologically complex anecdote about encountering a snake in his yard. Approaching his "water-trough" to refill a pitcher on a hot day in Sicily, he finds a yellowish, poisonous snake that has come to drink there before him. Cycling through various emotions, the speaker is "afraid" of and awed by the snake but also oddly resentful of this impressive "lord[] of life." After he clumsily hurls a log at the snake—which isn't trying to harm him at all—he's overcome with self-loathing at the "pettiness" of his "mean act." What awes and impresses us, the poem suggests, can also make us feel resentful and threatened, causing us to lash out in foolish ways. And this may be especially true for men, whose sense of masculinity is easily threatened by perceived competition.
Encountering the snake, the speaker feels a mix of fear and wonder, as well as a strange affinity toward the creature. He admits that's he's "most afraid" of the snake and believes, on an intellectual level, that it "must be killed" because it's poisonous. His fear of the snake also involves an irrational dread of the unknown, symbolized by the "horrid black hole" from which the snake comes and to which it returns. (This hole might also be symbolically related to sex, birth, death, or all three.) Despite his fear, the speaker also "like[s]" the snake and compares it to a "guest" of honor. In its "gold" armor, the snake reminds the speaker of a "king in exile." It even seems to have a divine quality: it "look[s] around like a god" who's emerged "from the burning bowels of the earth." On some level, then, the speaker feels quite "honoured" that the snake has paid him a visit.
At the same time, the encounter plays on the speaker's insecurities, prompting him to try to dominate or kill the snake. Impressed as he is, he chides himself, "If you were not afraid, you would kill him." Overcoming his ambivalence, the speaker chucks a "log" at the snake—and, apparently, misses. It's probably no coincidence that both log and snake have a phallic shape: the speaker seems to be trying to assert a kind of masculine as well as human dominance. His inner "voices" jeer that "If [he] were a man," he'd be able to get the job done (a hint that the poem, in a coded and symbolic way, is partly about sexual potency and impotence).
When the speaker's petty power move accomplishes nothing (the snake gets away), he's left feeling even more insecure and ashamed than before. He acknowledges that he "immediately [...] regretted" throwing the log and scolds himself for his "mean," "vulgar" show of force. He implies that he should have simply marveled at the snake's glory rather than spitefully trying to destroy it. In other words, he should have trusted his awe, not his fear and "paltry" resentment.
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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Dignity, Indignity, and Dishonor
"Snake" contrasts the lordly dignity of a snake with the indignity, awkwardness, and dishonor of the human speaker. After trying to kill the snake, a beautiful creature that wasn't harming him, the speaker feels he's made a fool of himself and earned a kind of shame. Indeed, he seems to feel he's both a bad host to his regal "guest" and an inferior creature in general. As an insecure human being, he has blundered in the presence of this natural "god" or "king." By confessing his shame to the reader, the speaker strives to atone for his dishonor—perhaps implying that art and truth-telling can redeem lower forms of human behavior.
The speaker presents the snake as a graceful, even regal creature, setting up a contrast with his own clumsy and ignoble behavior. Many stories (e.g., the Eden myth) and idioms (e.g., "snake in the grass") portray snakes as low, undignified, or evil creatures, since they crawl on the earth and can kill humans. Yet the speaker imagines this poisonous snake as a regal presence gracing his property: "Was it humility, to feel so honoured? / I felt so honoured." As a "guest," the snake is on his best behavior: "quiet," "peaceful," and self-reliant (he helps himself to the speaker's water, then departs). The speaker feels flattered that the snake "should seek my hospitality / From out the dark door of the secret earth." Yet he betrays his responsibilities as a host, chasing his "guest" away for no good reason. Meanwhile, the snake's regal demeanor wavers for one moment only. When the speaker throws the log, the part of the snake still above ground "convulse[s] / in an undignified haste."
In making the snake look undignified for one moment, however, the speaker sacrifices all his own dignity. In a way, he's thrown the log to avoid dishonor—to please the internal "voices" that tell him, "If you were a man / You would [...] finish him off." But afterward he feels only shame. He chides himself: "[H]ow paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!" He seems to feel his behavior is unworthy of the snake, which is so coolly self-possessed and unconcerned with others. His shame reads as an ironic twist on the Eden story: unlike Adam and Eve, the speaker disgraces himself by rejecting a serpent, not heeding one.
In the end, then, the poem is a kind of unburdening—the speaker's belated attempt to recover some dignity through truth-telling or storytelling. He concludes that "I have something to expiate: / A pettiness." The word "expiate" has religious connotations: it means to atone for some sin or offense. The poem itself, then, can be read as an attempt at expiation, or a confession of guilt and shame. The speaker seems to hope that he can transform his "pett[y]" behavior into something redemptive: an honest piece of writing.
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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Human Civilization vs. Nature
Like many poems featuring both humans and animals, "Snake" stages a conflict between human civilization and nature. The gold snake, a symbol of nature's beauty and potential danger, behaves as a kind of peaceful neighbor or houseguest. Meanwhile, the speaker feels instinctive respect for the snake—but since he knows the snake is poisonous, his "accursed human education" gets the better of him. Acting on his supposedly rational knowledge, he tries to kill the snake rather than letting it be. Broadly, the poem suggests that, instead of coexisting respectfully with nature, humans often turn encounters with wild creatures into needless power struggles. Our civilized education can therefore become a kind of curse, as it hinders a more organic, intuitive, and healthy relationship with the world around us.
The speaker turns what could have been a moment of connection with nature into a moment of conflict. Though he knows the snake could theoretically kill him, he's at first inclined to treat the snake as an honored "guest." He recognizes that the snake is not only beautiful but "peaceful" as it goes about its business; in fact, it behaves as tamely as domestic "cattle." Despite his instinctive respect, the speaker listens to "The voice of my education," which says the snake "must be killed." In other words, he respects the snake, but not quite enough. Halfheartedly, he tries to kill the creature, spoiling what had been an awe-inspiring encounter.
The speaker essentially blames his blunder on human civilization, which treats nature as a stranger or enemy rather than a part of our world. Filled with regret after his weak attempt at snake-killing, the speaker "despise[s] myself and the voices of my accursed human education." This education, he implies, stems from a larger and generally toxic human culture: one that seeks total dominance over nature, and can't tolerate anything that might harm or frustrate humans. Indeed, the speaker's education overrides his first, healthier impulse: to behave "hospita[bly]" toward the snake (or nature in general).
The poem intimates that if this kind of "human education" is a curse, a more respectful relationship to nature would be a blessing. (Much of D. H. Lawrence's writing criticizes what he perceived as the soullessness of modern, mechanized civilization, and urges a return to more intuitive or "primitive" ways of living.)
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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Missed Opportunities and Regret
After throwing a log at the snake, the speaker of "Snake" feels not only foolish but disappointed: he feels he's "missed [his] chance with one of the lords / Of life." Though he doesn't specify what kind of "chance" he believes he's missed, it seems to involve a deeper bond with or appreciation of this impressive creature. He even feels he may have incurred some sort of curse or bad luck. The poem thus seems to warn against taking nature's beauty and power for granted. More generally, perhaps, it warns against focusing solely on the downside of ambiguous or challenging situations—treating them as pure crises rather than potential opportunities.
Though most of the poem is emotionally conflicted, it ends with clear and bitter regret. In other words, the speaker's anecdote turns into a warning story. The speaker sighs: "I wished he would come back, my snake." Reviewing the encounter with a clear mind, he feels wistful affection ("my snake") rather than fear. The speaker even "th[inks] of the albatross"—that is, the bird from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's famous poem "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," which becomes a symbol of bad luck and regret after the mariner kills it. In other words, although the snake has escaped unharmed, the speaker feels deep regret and dread, as if attacking it might have brought bad luck or offended the gods.
The speaker specifically warns against "pettiness," but more broadly, he's warning against failures of courage and imagination. It's implied that these qualities would have helped him seize the moment during his encounter with the snake. They would have helped him appreciate the snake as peaceful rather than threatening, beautiful rather than dreadful, and so on. Even if he isn't literally cursed, then, he's left with lasting disappointment. Without stating its lesson outright, the poem encourages readers to make more of their own "chance[s]"—to treat moments of ambivalence and vulnerability as opportunities for learning and growth.
- See where this theme is active in the poem.
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Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis of “Snake”
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Lines 1-6
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.Lines 1-6 set the scene for the poem's extended anecdote. The speaker, a first-person narrator, recalls encountering one of nature's most unnerving animals: "A snake."
The setting seems to be a yard of some kind at the speaker's residence, baking under the sun "On a hot, hot day." The midday "heat" is so fierce that the speaker is still wearing light "pyjamas" in an effort to stay cool. He's carrying a "pitcher" to a "water-trough" (a sort of water fountain) in the yard, presumably in order to fill it at the tap and get a cool drink. But as he walks "down the steps" toward the trough, he finds that the thirsty snake has gotten there first. Instead of getting instant relief from the heat, then, he "must wait, must stand and wait." (Notice how the repetition here slows down the line and helps convey the speaker's impatience.)
This little encounter takes place "In the deep, strange-scented shade of [a] great dark carob tree," where the water-trough is located. The carob is an evergreen shrub or tree native to the Middle East and Mediterranean regions (this poem takes place, as line 21 reveals, on the Mediterranean island of Sicily). It has a broad crown, fruit pods, and an unusual odor that's often described as sexual—in fact, often compared to semen.
Right away, then, through a mix of visual and olfactory (smell-based) imagery, the poem hints that it might be exploring some "deep," "dark," potentially sex-related regions of the human psyche. It might be exploring masculinity in particular (notice, too, that the snake is a common phallic symbol). In fact, while "Snake" goes on to relate a fairly long story—in sprawling, chatty free verse—very little actually happens in the poem. Instead, the main action is psychological: it's all about what's going on beneath the surface, inside the speaker's mind.
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Lines 7-13
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently. -
Lines 14-21
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. -
Lines 22-26
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off. -
Lines 27-34
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured. -
Lines 35-40
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him.
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth. -
Lines 41-49
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. -
Lines 50-54
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned. -
Lines 55-62
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in an undignified haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination. -
Lines 63-67
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake. -
Lines 68-74
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
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“Snake” Symbols
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The Snake
The snake in "Snake" symbolizes several things at once:
- First, it's a symbol of untamed nature intruding on the "educat[ed]" speaker's civilized, tame, "human" world.
- Second, it's a symbol of death and danger, since its venom could potentially kill a human being. (The speaker even compares the snake to a "king" of the "underworld," like the mythical Hades, king of the dead.)
- Third, because of its elongated shape and the way the speaker genders it as "he," it functions as a masculine or phallic symbol. In fact, the speaker seems threatened by the snake both as a human being in general and a "man" in particular. The snake cuts in front of him at the water-trough, as if undermining his claim to dominance. "If you were a man," his inner voice taunts, "You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off." (For more on the gender complexities/ambiguities at play here, see the Speaker section of this guide.) Eventually, the speaker pits himself against the snake in a macho way, attempting to kill it (symbolically castrate it, perhaps) by throwing a log in its direction. Yet his attempt fails and becomes a gesture of futility and impotence.
- Finally, thanks in large part to the famous serpent in the Garden of Eden story, snakes often symbolize evil. This poem actually seems to challenge that symbolism. The snake is frightening to the speaker, but "peaceful" and unassuming as it goes about its business. And in the end, the speaker feels foolish and ashamed, not heroic, for trying to vanquish it.
- See where this symbol appears in the poem.
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The Log
Like the snake, the "log" the speaker throws (lines 56-58) can be read as a phallic symbol. Lawrence uses it for comic effect in the poem: the speaker's first idea is to kill the snake with a "stick" (line 26), so right away, throwing a log seems like overkill. The log is also "clumsy"—bulky and awkward—so it makes for a ridiculous weapon in the speaker's bid for macho dominance.
Finally, the log is ineffectual. Even if it hits the snake (and the speaker thinks "it did not"), it does no damage, and the snake escapes. If the log represents the speaker's manhood, then, it makes the speaker look awkward and impotent—and as if he might be overcompensating for his insecurities.
- See where this symbol appears in the poem.
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The Hole in the Earth/Crack in the Wall
The "fissure in the earth-wall," from which the snake crawls and to which it returns, doesn't clearly represent any one thing. Instead, through the speaker's descriptions, it's symbolically related to birth, death, and sex.
If the snake is a phallic or masculine symbol, the hole can be read as a yonic or feminine symbol. Notice that the wall is made of "earth," and the earth is often feminized in traditional myths—think Mother Earth, Gaia, and so on. The snake exiting and entering the hole, a.k.a. "the dark door of the secret earth," might evoke birth on the one hand and sexual penetration on the other. (It helps to know that Lawrence's writing, which is sexually frank in general, often made use of sexual symbolism—the kind that's still called "Freudian" in honor of the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud.)
And yet, "the dark door of the secret earth" might bring to mind death rather than birth or female sexuality. After all, a grave is a kind of door into the earth. And the speaker later imagines the crack in the wall as a gateway to the "underworld," or the mythical land of the dead. So birth, death, and sex all seem to combine in this one image, which the speaker fixates on in "horror" (lines 50-53).
His recoiling from this "dreadful hole" might convey sexual disgust—or a more general disgust with nature and the way nature works. That is, he might feel horrified (however subconsciously) at the inextricable link between sex and birth, or between birth and death. As he lashes out in "protest" against the snake's "withdrawing into that horrid black hole," he looks like a sheltered human being struggling to come to grips with nature's stark realities.
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“Snake” Poetic Devices & Figurative Language
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Anthropomorphism
At various moments in the poem, the speaker anthropomorphizes the snake. That is, the speaker attributes human qualities, motives, and behaviors to the snake, even though it's a non-human animal. This pattern starts to develop around line 27, as the speaker admits to "lik[ing]" the snake and starts to portray "him" in sympathetic, relatable terms.
The speaker compares the snake to a "guest" (line 28) seeking out his "hospitality" (line 39)—something only a human being could literally do. He also describes the snake's attitude, after drinking from the "water-trough," as "peaceful, pacified, and thankless." Again, there's a touch of human characterization here. Only a person could have literally "thank[ed]" the speaker for his hospitality, yet the speaker imagines the snake as a quiet, unobtrusive, but somewhat aloof or ungrateful guest. Continuing this fantasy in line 32, the speaker even finds himself "long[ing] to talk to" the snake—an obviously impossible wish.
Later, the speaker projects not only human but royal qualities onto the snake. He notes that the snake briefly looks "undignified" as it escapes—but this brief lapse only highlights how dignified it looks the rest of the time. (Of course, dignity is a fundamentally human concept.) The snake even reminds the speaker of "a king in exile," one who is returning home "to be crowned again."
In all these cases, the anthropomorphism highlights the strange mix of sympathy and antipathy the speaker feels toward the snake. Their encounter seems to bridge the human and natural worlds in an uncanny way. At the same time, the device suggests that the speaker is projecting his own fears and insecurities onto the snake. For example, the snake seems so regal and powerful in part because the speaker—to whom the snake's venom could be lethal—feels so vulnerable. Likewise, that adjective "thankless" hints at some insecurity on the speaker's part. There's no way the snake could actually thank him, so the speaker's feeling of being snubbed might reflect the inversion of the usual power dynamic between people and animals. The animal has the upper hand here, so to speak, so the speaker feels both impressed and slightly miffed.
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Allusion
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Repetition
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Imagery
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Rhetorical Question
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"Snake" Vocabulary
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
- Pyjamas
- Carob tree
- Fissure
- Second-comer
- Bowels
- Etna
- Perversity
- Thrice
- Adream
- Convulsed
- Paltry
- Accursed
- The albatross
- Lords of life
- Expiate
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Night-clothes, often of a light and loose kind. Also spelled pajamas.
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Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme of “Snake”
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Form
"Snake" consists of 19 stanzas of free verse. Both its lines and its stanzas vary considerably in length: the lines range from two to 23 syllables, while the stanzas range from two to nine lines. Because it's free verse, the poem contains no rhyme scheme and never settles into a regular meter; instead, its language is loose, chatty, and prose-like.
In many ways, the poem's original form reflects the early-20th-century modernist period during which Lawrence wrote it. Modernist poets adopted experimental techniques, particularly free verse, in order to depict a world that had changed drastically since the 1800s—due to rapidly evolving technology, cataclysmic warfare, accelerating urbanization, and other watershed events. (Freudian psychoanalysis shook up the culture of this time, too, and it seems to be a particular influence on this poem. See the Context section of this guide for more.)
The prosy language here might also reflect Lawrence's training in his primary genre: fiction. Lawrence remains best known as a novelist, author of Sons and Lovers (1913), The Rainbow (1915), Women in Love (1920), Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928), and other classics. "Snake" is a narrative poem of sorts, and its speaker sounds more like the narrator of a prose anecdote than the voice of a traditional lyric poem.
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Meter
As a free verse poem, "Snake" has no consistent meter. In fact, it seems to go out of its way to avoid falling into one. Its lines vary radically in length, from two syllables (line 72) to 23 syllables (line 52), and it never comes close to maintaining a regular rhythm.
Lawrence is participating, here, in the wave of literary/artistic experimentation now known as modernism, during which many poets threw conventional rules of meter, rhyme, etc. out the window. (The first wave of modernism reached its height in the 1920s, and "Snake" was published in 1923.) And the highly irregular line lengths serve another purpose in this particular poem: they make the language seem to twist, turn, and snake down the page. The effect is unpredictable, sometimes unsettling or startling, but has its own strange kind of beauty—much like the snake at the speaker's trough.
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Rhyme Scheme
"Snake" is written in free verse, so it has no rhyme scheme (and no real end rhyme of any kind). There are a few moments of repetition at the ends of lines (e.g., "cattle do" in lines 16-17), and an incidental rhyme or two (e.g., "fascination" and "education" in lines 62 and 65), but for the most part, the poem reads more like prose than structured verse.
Lawrence was a novelist and short story writer as well as a poet—in fact, it's his fiction that made him famous. Here, it's as if he's blending genres, aiming for something more like prose poetry, or an anecdote with line breaks, than a traditional lyric.
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“Snake” Speaker
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The speaker of the poem seems to be a stand-in for D. H. Lawrence himself. The speaker is living or staying in "Sicily," with a view of Mount "Etna" (a volcano on the east coast of Sicily)—just as Lawrence himself was while writing the poem. In the early 1920s, he and his wife Frieda lived briefly in the Sicilian town of Taormina, as part of a long period of global travel he called his "savage pilgrimage." (Lawrence also added the endnote "Taormina" to "Snake," which helps ground the poem in his life circumstances at the time.)
Though the poem is called "Snake," it's really a psychological portrait of the speaker, who describes his reactions to the snake in great detail. He wavers between admiring and attacking the snake—between "the voices of my accursed human education," which tell him to kill the dangerous pest, and a more generous spirit that feels "honoured" by the snake's visit. He worries about his own "cowardice" for wanting to leave the snake alone, and his "perversity" (that is, eccentricity) for wanting to communicate with the snake somehow ("talk to him"). He feels compelled to prove his humanity and masculinity by conquering the snake—yet he feels a secret sympathy with the creature ("I liked him"). Ultimately, he bitterly regrets his choice to attack the snake; he kicks himself for his "paltry," "vulgar," "mean act."
The speaker's name and occupation are never stated, but his gender seems clear. His inner voices challenge him to act manlier, to fulfill the gender expectations of manhood: "If you were a man / You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off." But wait: couldn't this statement be literal as well? Couldn't the speaker be a woman, challenging herself to act as a man traditionally would in this situation?
There is, in fact, some gender ambiguity here—and Lawrence's work was known for exploring the ambiguities and complexities of sex and gender. Because Lawrence was male and tied this poem to his personal circumstances, this guide refers to the speaker as "he"/"him" throughout—but with the caveat that the question isn't totally decided. Part of the point here is that the speaker seems unsure about his "man[hood]," or about how a "man" ought to act in this scenario.
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“Snake” Setting
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The setting of the poem is Taormina, a town on the eastern coast of the Italian island of Sicily. Lawrence actually added the word "Taormina" as a kind of endnote to "Snake," and it appears in many printed editions of the poem.
Like other Mediterranean islands, Sicily tends to get very hot and dry in the summertime. Lawrence's poem is set "On a hot, hot day" in the middle of "July," during which Sicily's most famous peak, the volcanic Mount "Etna," is "smoking" from its crater. It's so hot that the speaker is still wearing "pyjamas" at noon in an effort to stay cool.
More immediately, the setting is some kind of yard on the speaker's property. In this yard stands a giant "carob tree" shading a cracked "earth-wall" and a "water-trough." The wall contains a "hole" that leads down into "the burning bowels of the earth"; the snake slithers out of this hole at the start of this poem and slithers back in at the end. (The speaker imagines the hole as the entrance to a mythical "underworld," in which the snake reigns as "king.")
"Snake" is a psychologically complex poem, and in various ways, its setting mirrors (or contributes to) its emotional atmosphere. For example, the heat of the "intense still noon" both reflects and ratchets up the poem's psychological intensity, as the speaker sweats and frets over what might otherwise be a mundane incident. Likewise, the emergence of the snake from the earth (and smoke from the crater of Etna) hints at tensions brewing beneath the surface of the speaker's psyche. In a way, it's as if the snake has crawled straight out of the speaker's unconscious mind, forcing him to confront his fears and insecurities.
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Literary and Historical Context of “Snake”
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Literary Context
David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet. Highly regarded for such groundbreaking works as Sons and Lovers and The Rainbow, he became best known for his controversial novel Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928), which faced an obscenity trial for its explicit language and depictions of sex. The trial, ironically, boosted the book's popularity, and it went on to sell millions of copies. Lawrence also wrote hundreds of poems, with "Snake" featuring in his celebrated 1923 collection Birds, Beasts and Flowers. As its title suggests, this collection is nature-themed—divided into sections such as "Fruits," "Trees," and "Birds" ("Snake" appears in the "Reptiles" section, of course).
Lawrence was included in the first Georgian Poetry anthology, published in 1912 and named for the reign of King George V. But critics more often group Lawrence in with modernism: an early 20th-century movement that championed new, experimental artistic forms. Modernist poets rejected the rigid structures of the past, often turning instead to free verse in their writing. "Snake" is a representative and well-known example of Lawrence's free verse from this period.
Modernists also introduced the narrative technique called stream of consciousness, which attempts to capture not only a speaker's thoughts but the actual experience of thinking. Though not quite a stream-of-consciousness poem, "Snake" is influenced by this technique, as readers may feel they're following the speaker's conflicted thoughts and memories in real time.
Historical Context
The early 20th century was a time of rapid and widespread change. The Victorian era (which coincided with the reign of Queen Victoria from 1837 to 1901) had been an age of strict morality and pronounced social inequality. Modernism arose at the tail end of this era, as writers responded to an increasingly fast-paced and unpredictable world with inventive forms that shattered the rigid conventions of the past.
Lawrence also had a deep interest in the burgeoning field of psychoanalysis, including the disconnect between people's outer appearances and their inner realities. These interests show through in "Snake," which turns an outwardly mundane anecdote—man throws log at snake—into a psychologically complex portrait of a human being's response to a dangerous animal. Arguably, the poem (with its phallic snake and log, yonic hole in the wall, etc.) draws on the kind of sexual symbolism now called "Freudian," after the psychoanalytic theories of Sigmund Freud (1856-1939). That is, it can be read as a disguised portrait of male sexual insecurity (see, e.g., the interior "voices" in lines 25-26: "If you were a man / You would take a stick and break him now"). Though no longer regarded as strictly scientific, Freud's writings about sex, neurosis, the unconscious mind, and other subjects had a seismic influence on the literature and thought of the early 20th century.
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More “Snake” Resources
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External Resources
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The Poem Aloud — Listen to a reading of "Snake."
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More About Lawrence — A summary of D. H. Lawrence's life and career at Encyclopedia Britannica.
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The Poet's Life and Work — A biography of Lawrence at the Poetry Foundation.
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The Poem in Context — Read the poem as it appeared in the original (1923) edition of Birds, Beasts and Flowers.
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The Snake? — Pictures of the asp, or asp viper, a likely candidate for the type of snake described in Lawrence's poem.
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LitCharts on Other Poems by D. H. Lawrence
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