1670 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 set me down This was a dream.