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.