Emily Dickinson, [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.