Short space shall be hereafter <br />Ere April brings the hour <br />Of weeping and of laughter, <br />Of sunshine and of shower, <br />Of groaning and of gladness, <br />Of singing and of sadness, <br />Of melody and madness, <br />Of all sweet things and sour. <br /> <br />Sweet to the blithe bucolic <br />Who knows nor cribs nor crams, <br />Who sees the frisky frolic <br />Of lanky little lambs; <br />But sour beyond expression <br />To one in deep depression <br />Who sees the closing session <br />And imminent exams. <br /> <br />He cannot hear the singing <br />Of birds upon the bents, <br />Nor watch the wildflowers springing, <br />Nor smell the April scents. <br />He gathers grief with grinding, <br />Foul food of sorrow finding <br />In books of dreary binding <br />And drearier contents. <br /> <br />One hope alone sustains him, <br />And no more hopes beside, <br />One trust alone restrains him <br />From shocking suicide; <br />He will not play nor palter <br />With hemlock or with halter, <br />He will not fear nor falter, <br />Whatever chance betide. <br /> <br />He knows examinations <br />Like all things else have ends, <br />And then come vast vacations <br />And visits to his friends, <br />And youth with pleasure yoking, <br />And joyfulness and joking, <br />And smilingness and smoking, <br />For grief to make amends.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-swinburnian-interlude/
