With rank weed choked, and with clotted grass,
Fit for a reptile's lair.
They dread the light, do those dismal things,
Its gleam they dare not face.
Their snaky writhings, their bat-like wings,
Their quaking menace of fangs and stings
Make horror of the place.
All things should be so bright and fair
In a land so glad and free;
But the Search-Light layeth dark secrets bare,