Here you will find the Poem A Swinburnian Interlude of poet Robert Fuller Murray
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.
