What soothes the angry snail?
What’s music to his horn?
For the “Sonata Appassionata,”
He shows scorn,
And Handel
Makes the frail snail
Quail,
While Prokofieff
Gets no laugh
And Tschaikowsky, I fear,
No tear.
Piano, pipe, and harp,
Dulcet or shrill,
Flat or sharp,
Indoors or in the garden,
Are willy-nilly
Silly
To the reserved, slow,
Sensitive
Snail,
Who prefers to live
Glissandissimo,
Pianissimo.
The New Yorker, 25 January 1947; copyright 1947 by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc., 25 West 43rd. Street, New York, N.Y., 10036. We are indebted to Miss Sarton, and to Miss D. E. Terry of the Editorial Offices, The New Yorker, for kindly granting permission to reprint the above poem.
(Extracted from Conchologists’ Newsletter No. 29, p. 97)