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Spring at the Door

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.


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