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And I want to read now Theodore
Roethke's poem called "Snake."

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I saw a young snake glide
out of the mottled shade

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and hang limp on a stone.

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A thin mouth and a tongue
stayed in the still air.

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It turned, it drew away.

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Its shadow bent in half,
it quickened and was gone.

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I felt my slow blood warm.

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I longed to be that thing,
the pure sensuous form.

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And I may be some time.

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