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.