ISSUE: Spring 1933
Spring is a wild thing for sure,—
What wilder ever ran!
But once in a while he will rub at the door
Of almost any man.
And here he is at my own sill,
Whining for me to know,—
Until I peer outside and feel
A flurry in the snow,
Find a cloud of shining flakes,
A blur of foot-prints four,
From a wild thing that comes and shakes
The quiet of my door.