To think to know the country and not know
 The hillside on the day the sun lets go
 Ten million silver lizards out of snow!
 As often as I've seen it done before
 I can't pretend to tell the way it's done.
 It looks as if some magic of the sun
 Lifted the rug that bred them on the floor
 And the light breaking on them made them run.
 But if I thought to stop the wet stampede,
 And caught one silver lizard by the tail,
 And put my foot on one without avail,
 And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneed
 In front of twenty others' wriggling speed, --
 In the confusion of them all aglitter,
 And birds that joined in the excited fun,
 By doubling and redoubling song and twitter,
 I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.

 It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizard
 By all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.
 >From the high west she makes a gentle cast
 And suddenly, without a jerk or twitch,
 She has her spell on every single lizard.
 I fancied when I looked at six o'clock
 The swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.
 The moon was waiting for her chill effect.
 I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rock
 In every lifelike posture of the swarm,
 Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.
 Across each other and side by side they lay.
 The spell that so could hold them as they were
 Was wrought through trees without a breath of storm
 To make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.
 It was the moon's: she held them until day,
 One lizard at the end of every ray.
 The thought of my attempting such a stay!