On the desert 
A silence from the moon's deepest valley. 
Fire rays fall athwart the robes 
Of hooded men, squat and dumb. 
Before them, a woman 
Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles 
And distant thunder of drums, 
While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour, 
Sleepily fondle her body 
Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand. 
The snakes whisper softly; 
The whispering, whispering snakes, 
Dreaming and swaying and staring, 
But always whispering, softly whispering. 
The wind streams from the lone reaches 
Of Arabia, solemn with night, 
And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood 
Over the robes of the hooded men 
Squat and dumb. 
Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow, 
Circle the throat and the arms of her, 
And over the sands serpents move warily 
Slow, menacing and submissive, 
Swinging to the whistles and drums, 
The whispering, whispering snakes, 
Dreaming and swaying and staring, 
But always whispering, softly whispering. 
The dignity of the accursed; 
The glory of slavery, despair, death, 
Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.