In sensuous coil
And heartless toil,
In sinuous course
And armored force,
In savage harms
That yield to charms —
In all these things
Are snakes like kings.

Uneven, rough,
And high enough —
Yet low folk roam
Their flanks as home,
And wild things haunt
Them, hungry, gaunt —
In all these things
Are hills like kings.
The things that claw, and the things that gore
Are unreliable things;
And so is a man with a sword in his hand,
And rivers, and women, and kings.