IN Winter, in my room,
I came upon a worm,
Pink, lank, and warm.
But as he was a worm
And worms presume,
Not quite with him at home–
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring,
And went along.
A trifle afterward
A thing occurred,
I'd not believe it if I heard–
But state with creeping blood;
A snake, with mottles rare,
Surveyed my chamber floor,
In feature as the worm before,
But ringed with power.
The very string

With which I tied him, too,
When he was mean and new,
That string was there.

I shrank–"How fair you are!"
Propitiation's claw–
"Afraid," he hissed,
"Of me?"
"No cordiality?"
He fathomed me.

Then, to a rhythm slim
Secreted in his form,
As patterns swim,
Projected him.

That time I flew,
Both eyes his way,
Lest he pursue–
Nor ever ceased to run,
Till, in a distant town,
Towns on from mine–
I sat me down;
This was a dream.