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

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

In the Vagabond's free flow of thought,

"Too late for breakfast, and I guess the beard

Can grow another day. . . . Which course was it? . . .

All students must attend the final class

Before a holiday. . . . The paper's dull

This morning. . . . Oh, yes, English; that was it. . . ."

The Vagabond reached for the usual coat,

But it was warm today. . . . He heard the bell

Din in the hour just as he reached the Yard.

He saw the smoking lawns where snow had been--

And how he wished to roll on them, but they

Were wet and spongy from the thaw.

But Spring was here!

He dreamt how he would lie beside that brook

Down on the farm. How he would hear the hollow

Gurgle of the water as it only

Gurgled in the spring, and smell the air,

That musty smell, the smell of earth again.

And how the breeze would whisper, "Vag, it's spring;

Vag in love; Vag in love; it's spring. . . . Wake up!"

Something hit his face and made him see

The open window by his head. "Oh, well,

I still can ski; the snow is deeper now."