The Snake.

A poem by Thomas Moore

My love and I, the other day,
Within a myrtle arbor lay,
When near us, from a rosy bed,
A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes--
"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
"Who could expect such hidden harm
"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"

Never did grave remark occur
Less à-propos than this from her.

I rose to kill the snake, but she,
Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

"No," said the maiden--and, alas,
Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it--
"Long as the snake is in the grass,
"One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:
"But, when its wicked eyes appear,
"And when we know for what they wink so,
"One must be very simple, dear,
"To let it wound one--don't you think so?"

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