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."