Priscilla Denise Levertov

To the Snake

Green Snake, when I hung you round my neck
and stroked your cold, pulsing throat
        as you hissed to me, glinting
arrowy gold scales, and I felt
        the weight of you on my shoulders,
and the whispering silver of your dryness
        sounded close at my ears —


Green Snake—I swore to my companions that certainly
        you were harmless!  But truly
I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring
        to hold you, for that joy,
                                                which left
a long wake of pleasure, as the leaves moved
and you faded into the pattern
of grass and shadows, and I returned
smiling and haunted, to a dark morning.