The Snail

William Cowper, 1731 – 1800

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,

As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,

When danger imminent betides

Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,

His self-collecting power is such,

He shrinks into his house, with much

Displeasure.

Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,

Except himself has chattels none,

Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,

Nor partner of his banquet needs,

And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,

(He and his house are so combin’d)

If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.