Snake
D. H. Lawrence
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
Summary
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
뱀
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
뱀 한 마리가 나의 샘으로 왔다
뜨겁고 뜨거운 여름날,
나도 그 열기를 참지못해 파자마만 입고
물을 마시러 갔다.
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.
진한 향기의 거대하고 짙푸른 캐롭나무, 그 그늘아래
물병을 들고 계단을 내려갔다
그리고 기다렸다. 가만히 서서 기다려야만 했다. 그 뱀이 나보다 먼저 왔기에 -
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.
뱀은 어둡고 좁은 벽틈새에서 나오더니 주루룩 내려왔다
보드랍고 노란갈색의 배를 바닥에 깔고 스르륵 미끄러지듯 돌로 된 물받이 가장자리로 왔다.
긴 목을 돌물받이 위에 살포시 올리고,
맑은 물이 똑똑 떨어지는 대롱을 향해
주둥이를 쭈욱 뻗어 물을 한모금 마셨다.
쭉뻗은 잇몸사이로 부드럽게 마신 물이
길고 매끄러운 몸안으로 흘러 들어갔다.
조용하게.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.
그 뱀이 나보다 먼저 내 샘에 왔다.
그리고 나는, 주인이 아닌양 내 차례를 기다렸다.
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.
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.
물을 다 마신 뱀은 머리를 치켜들었다. 집짐승처럼.
몽롱한 눈으로 나를 바라보았다. 집짐승이 물을 마시듯이.
입술 사이로 두갈래로 쪼개진 혀를 날름거리더니, 잠시 미동도 하지 않았다.
그리곤 긴 몸을 세우고 머리를 굽혀 물을 조금 더 마셨다.
대지를 닮은 황갈색, 시실리의 칠월 한낮,
연기 자욱한 에트나의 불타는 분화구에서 나온 노란갈색이다.
내가 어려서부터 받아 온 교육은 내게 소리친다.
그 뱀을 죽여라.
시실리의 검은 흑뱀은 순결하지만 황갈색 뱀은 사악해.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
내게 독촉하는 내면의 소리 - 네가 진짜 남자라면
당장 막대기를 집어들고 그 뱀을 쳐서 죽여없애라.
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?
하지만 고백한다. 내가 그 뱀을 얼마나 좋아했는지를.
살며시 찾아 온 손님처럼 그 뱀이 나의 샘으로 와서,
아주 평화롭게, 아주 만족스럽게 물을 마시곤 고마운 내색도 전혀없이 불타는 땅구멍속으로 떠나버린것에 내가 얼마나 기뻐했는지?
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 honored.
내가 감히 그 뱀을 죽이지 못한것은 겁쟁이였기 때문일까?
내가 그 뱀과 간절하게 대화하고 싶었던 것은 일탈이였을까?
내가 그렇게 영예롭게 느꼈던 것은 겸손때문일까?
솔직히 난 영예롭게 느꼈다.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
하지만 아직도 내 귓가에 쟁쟁하게 들리는 목소리:
네가 만일 겁쟁이가 아니었더라면 그 뱀을 죽였을꺼야!
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.
진실로 나는 두려웠다. 진짜 두려웠다. 하지만 그래도 난 영광스럽게 느낀다.
왜냐하면 비밀의 땅속, 그 어둠의 문으로 부터 나온 뱀이 내게 호의를 구했으니까.
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.
뱀은 물을 흡족하게 마시고
꿈꾸듯, 술취한 듯 머리를 들었다.
그러더니 칠흑같이 검은 두갈래의 혀를 공중에 휘두르며 날름거렸다.
입술을 핥듯이.
그리고 마치 신처럼 허공을 휘~ 둘러보았다.
서서히 머리를 돌렸다
느리게, 아주 느리게, 깊은 꿈에 잠긴듯이
그리고 긴 몸으로 천천히 타원을 그리며 앞으로 나아갔다.
그리고 다시 갈라진 담벽을 타고 올라갔다
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.
머리를 그 끔찍한 구멍에 박아넣었다.
스르르 어깨를 집어 넣더니 더 깊이 들어갔다.
순간, 공포스럽게도 그 끔찍한 구멍속으로 들어가던 뱀이 행동을 멈추었다.
조심스럽게 흑암속으로 서서히 들어가던 뱀이 갑자기 몸을 뺐냈다.
두려움이 엄습하며 숨이 막혔다 - 뱀이 등을 돌려 내쪽으로 향했다.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
나는 황급히 물병을 내려 놓고
더듬더듬 나뭇가지를 집어 들었다.
그리고 물받이를 향해 딱 소리가 나게 던졌다.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in 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.
그 뱀을 치지는 못했다.
그런데 어처구니없게도 그 뱀은 갑자기 위엄을 잃고 몸을 추스리며 서둘러 달아났다.
번개같이 잽싸게, 몸서리까지 치면서,
어두운 구멍 속으로, 갈라진 벽틈새로 황망하게 사라져버렸다.
강렬한 정오의 햇살아래서 난 그것에 매혹되어 정신없이응시하고 있었다.
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.
순간 나는 후회했다.
내가 얼마나 초라하고, 상스럽고, 악랄한 짓을 했는지!
나는 나 스스로와 내안에 깊게 내재하고 있는 졸렬한 인간교육의 목소리를 경멸했다.
And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
나는 멸종된 알바트로스를 생각했다.
그리고 그 뱀이 다시 돌아오기를 원했다.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
왜냐하면 내게 그 뱀은 왕,
지하세계에 망명해 있는 왕관을 잃은 왕이였다.
지금이 바로 그 왕관을 되찾을 때인데...
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
난 일생의 단한번의 기회, 영주가 될 기회를 잃은 것이다.
나는 속죄한다:
그 졸렬함에 대하여.
David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930) 의 '뱀' 은 캐나다 고등학교에서 시분석 과제로 주는 시다. 뱀의 아름다움과 위용에 매혹된 시인은 솔직한 내면과 '뱀 = 사악함'이란 고정관념 사이에서 이율배반적인 행동을 하는 자신의 모습을 한탄스럽게 그리고 있다. 인간교육이 주는 고정관념과 세뇌에 대하여 새롭게 생각하게 하면서 탐미적인 색채가 강하다.