The Snail 

By Walter de la Mare

All day shut fast in whorled retreat

You slumber where - no wild bird knows;

While on your rounded roof-tree beat

The petals of the rose.

The grasses sigh above your house

Through drifts of darkness azure sweep

The sun-motes where the mosses drowse

That soothe your noonday sleep.

But when to ashes in the west

Those sun-fires die; and, silver, slim,

Eve, with the moon upon her breast,

Smiles on the uplands dim;

Then, all your wreathed house astir,

Horns reared, grim mouth, deliberate pace,

You glide in silken silence where

The feast awaits your grace.

Strange partners, Snail! Then I, abed,

Consign the thick-darked vault to you,

Nor heed what sweetness night may shed

Nor moonshine's slumbrous dew.