(70) 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.
-Emily Dickinson