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 —