A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE

Short space shall be hereafter

Ere April brings the hour

Of weeping and of laughter,

Of sunshine and of shower,

Of groaning and of gladness,

Of singing and of sadness,

Of melody and madness,

Of all sweet things and sour.

Sweet to the blithe bucolic

Who knows nor cribs nor crams,

Who sees the frisky frolic

Of lanky little lambs;

But sour beyond expression

To one in deep depression

Who sees the closing session

And imminent exams.

He cannot hear the singing

Of birds upon the bents,

Nor watch the wildflowers springing,

Nor smell the April scents.

He gathers grief with grinding,

Foul food of sorrow finding

In books of dreary binding

And drearier contents.

One hope alone sustains him,

And no more hopes beside,

One trust alone restrains him

From shocking suicide;

He will not play nor palter

With hemlock or with halter,

He will not fear nor falter,

Whatever chance betide.

He knows examinations

Like all things else have ends,

And then come vast vacations

And visits to his friends,

And youth with pleasure yoking,

And joyfulness and joking,

And smilingness and smoking,

For grief to make amends.