Coiled on a hot white stone
The adder basks
And nothing asks
Save to be let alone.

Yet somewhere in the ling
An enemy
Crawls stealthily
To rouse him up to sting:

So he must lift his head
Once more to fight,
Till in the light
He or his foe lie dead.

O heart, that you might rest,
And naught again
Rouse from their den
The angers of my breast!