D.H. Lawrence‘s poem “Snake” is a profound exploration of human interaction with the natural world, serving as a vivid testament to the complex and often contradictory emotions that arise when primal instinct clashes with societal conditioning and intellectual thought. Written in 1923, the poem recounts a personal encounter between Lawrence and a snake at his water-trough in Sicily. What initially appears as a simple observation quickly transforms into an intense internal drama, revealing the poet’s oscillating feelings of reverence, fear, fascination, and ultimately, a deep sense of regret and shame. The poem transcends a mere anecdote, becoming a powerful commentary on humanity’s often-strained relationship with untamed nature and the self-inflicted wounds of intellectual arrogance.
At its core, “Snake” delves into the intricate psychological landscape of the speaker, torn between an innate admiration for the ancient, dignified creature and the ingrained, culturally imposed imperative to treat such animals with suspicion and hostility. This internal conflict is not merely a fleeting moment of indecision but a prolonged, agonizing struggle that exposes the deep schism within the human psyche. Lawrence masterfully uses the snake as a catalyst to unearth these fundamental tensions, forcing the reader to confront the arbitrary nature of human prejudice against the inherent purity and majesty of the wild. The poem becomes a vital expression of Lawrence’s own philosophical leanings, emphasizing the importance of “blood-consciousness” over the sterile dictates of the rational mind, and advocating for a re-connection with the primal, instinctual rhythms of life.
The initial stages of the encounter are marked by an overwhelming sense of awe and quiet reverence. Lawrence observes the snake drinking at his water-trough, describing it with a lyrical beauty that immediately establishes its majestic presence: “A snake came to my water-trough / On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, / To drink there.” The snake is presented as a creature of immense dignity and composure, “King in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,” a being that commands respect by its very nature. Lawrence notes its slow, deliberate movements, its “slack-lopped body,” and the way it “sipped with his straight mouth, / Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body.” There is no hint of fear or revulsion in these opening lines; instead, there is a deep, almost spiritual fascination with the creature’s simple, unhurried act of survival. This initial emotion is pure admiration, an acknowledgment of the snake’s inherent right to exist and perform its natural functions unmolested. The poet finds himself mesmerized, feeling privileged to witness such a primal scene.
However, this untainted admiration is quickly challenged by what Lawrence describes as “the voice of my education.” This voice, representing societal norms, conventional wisdom, and perhaps the ingrained fear of the unknown, begins to assert itself. It whispers insidious thoughts into the poet’s mind, urging him to conform to human expectations: “The voice of my education said to me / He must be killed.” This societal dictate is rooted in fear and prejudice, associating snakes with danger, venom, and evil—a deeply ingrained Western cultural narrative. The voice argues that “black, black as if from the burning bowels of the earth / Are snakes, and Sicilian snakes are black, poison are of them.” It insists that it is a mark of courage, a “manliness,” to confront and eliminate such a creature: “If you were not afraid, you would kill him!” This internal monologue highlights the absurdity of human arrogance, which often mistakes destruction for strength and fear for wisdom.
The conflict intensifies as Lawrence consciously battles against this conditioning. He recognizes the artificiality and cruelty of this “voice,” contrasting it sharply with his intuitive sense of what is “truly human.” He feels a powerful urge to reject the societal imperative, to embrace the natural connection he feels with the snake. He desires to “wait and wait for the snake to finish drinking, / And lift his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, / And flicker his tongue like a flame out of the air, so black, / Looking round like a god, unseeing, into the air.” This desire is a yearning for true communion, an aspiration to transcend human-imposed boundaries and connect with the raw, untamed essence of life. He sees the snake not as an enemy, but as a “guest” who has come to his “hospitality,” someone who “was like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld.” The very idea of harming such a creature becomes an act of betrayal against this deeper, more fundamental sense of kinship.
Yet, despite his profound empathy and intellectual resistance, the “voice of my education” proves to be tragically persuasive. The conflict culminates in a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment driven by an impulse to conform and conquer. As the snake turns to depart, exhibiting a final, almost dismissive elegance, Lawrence succumbs: “A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into the black hole, / Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, / Overcame me now his back was turned.” This “horror” is not fear of the snake, but a sudden, irrational impulse to assert human dominance. He picks up a “clumsy log” and hurls it at the departing creature, hitting the edge of the stone trough. The act itself is described as “petty” and “vulgar,” immediately triggering an overwhelming wave of remorse.
The immediate aftermath of throwing the log is characterized by profound regret and self-loathing. “And immediately I regretted it,” he confesses, the simplicity of the statement underscoring the raw honesty of his emotion. He reflects on his actions with a powerful internal monologue: “I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! / I despised myself and the voices of my accursed education.” The word “accursed” here highlights the depth of his condemnation for the societal norms that led him astray. He feels he has squandered a precious opportunity for a genuine connection with nature, an opportunity to demonstrate a higher form of humanity, one not predicated on fear and destruction. This regret is not merely superficial; it is a deep existential lament for having betrayed his own truer instincts.
The emotional conflict then shifts from an internal battle of wills to a profound sense of loss and longing. Lawrence wishes the snake would return, hoping to atone for his “vulgar” act. He idealizes the snake even further, seeing it as a symbol of “the king, the king of the underworld, / Now due to be crowned again in the upper world.” This symbolic elevation underscores his deep admiration and the tragic nature of his impulsive act. The comparison he draws to the Ancient Mariner shooting the albatross is particularly telling. Just as the Mariner’s act was a violation of a sacred trust with nature, Lawrence’s action against the snake becomes a personal albatross, a heavy burden of guilt for having committed an unprovoked act of cruelty against a noble creature. This regret signifies a deeper understanding of his own failing, a realization that true wisdom lies not in dominance, but in reverence for all life.
Furthermore, the conflicting emotions in the poem reflect Lawrence’s broader philosophical views on the relationship between humanity and the natural world. He often championed “blood-consciousness,” an intuitive, instinctual way of knowing and experiencing the world, as superior to the rational, analytical “mind-consciousness” that he believed characterized modern, industrialized society. In “Snake,” the initial admiration for the creature represents this blood-consciousness, a pure, unmediated response to life. The “voice of my education” embodies the mind-consciousness, with its rigid classifications, its prejudices, and its drive to control and categorize. Lawrence’s struggle is a dramatization of his conviction that modern humans are alienated from their true selves and from nature because they have allowed their intellect to override their instincts and their deeper, more profound connections to the cosmos.
The poem also subtly conveys a primal fear, interwoven with the awe. While admiration is dominant, there’s a momentary shiver of unease when the snake lifts its head “like a god, unseeing” and flickers its “forked tongue.” The description “black, black as if from the burning bowels of the earth” carries an ancient, almost mythical resonance of dread, even as it contributes to the snake’s majesty. This subtle undercurrent of primal apprehension, inherited perhaps from collective unconscious fears, might also have played a part in the momentary surrender to the “voice of my education.” It is a testament to the complexity of human emotion that admiration and a deep-seated, almost subliminal fear can coexist and influence behavior. However, this fear is swiftly eclipsed by shame, revealing that Lawrence’s greater distress stems not from the snake’s perceived danger, but from his own failure to rise above a base, conditioned reaction.
Ultimately, Lawrence’s conflicting emotions on seeing the snake are a powerful exploration of the human condition. The poem illustrates the profound tension between humanity’s innate capacity for empathy and connection with nature, and the destructive forces of cultural indoctrination and intellectual arrogance. The poet’s journey from awe to internal conflict, and finally to deep regret, serves as a poignant critique of anthropocentric views and a fervent plea for a return to a more humble, respectful relationship with the natural world. The snake, initially a simple creature, becomes a profound symbol, reflecting not only the mystery and dignity of nature but also the complex, often contradictory depths of the human heart.
The poem concludes not with resolution, but with a lingering sense of unfulfilled longing and self-reproach. Lawrence wishes for the snake’s return, seeing it now as a missed opportunity, a chance to prove himself worthy of its presence. He laments the “pettiness” of his action, casting himself as “a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld” himself, but in a spiritual rather than regal sense, banished from a state of grace by his own folly. This profound regret is the enduring legacy of his conflicting emotions, a testament to the idea that true wisdom often arises from acknowledging and learning from one’s own shortcomings, particularly when those shortcomings result in a betrayal of a deeper, more instinctual understanding of life’s interconnectedness.