A dull buzzing stirred the sleepy Vagabond;
His reactions were mechanical: he slapped
The clock and struggled out of bed, reached for
The window. . . . There he stopped; there was no blast
Of cold. . . . He raised the blankets on his mind
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And classed a shadow promise of a thought;
"Then it is realty spring!" . . . A strange sound--birds.
And a different smelling air. He braced his elbows
On the window sill and looked about: the snow,
Deserting, left the grass a yellow green;
The Charles had almost healed itself of all
That winter tissue which was dull and dead,
And all the birds he hadn't seen before
Were singing in counterpoint their undeveloped
Themes which paralleled the lack of order
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INDEPENDENT INERTIA
