The Rattlesnake

Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate,

Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait,

Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate.

Is‘ t lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing

Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing,

To lead stark life where mailed death is king;

Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill,

Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill,

And life and death fight equal in her will.