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.