Classic Poem

Diffugere nives

Winter is gone with frost and rime
(Perhaps the statement's previous,
For weather in this fancy clime
Is nothing if not devious);
And now the buds are coming out,
And birds begin their flutings,
And freshmen freely look about
To pick their vernal suitings.

Winter is gone (I've mentioned that),
And crocuses are yellow,
The grassy plot invites the cat,
And eke the college Fellow;
And now the annual relay
Of Dowagers and Graces
Is tripping lightly on its way
To view the Lenten races.

And now the Crew is living down
Its taste for cheese and chutney,
And presently will treat the town
To episodes at Putney;
And nightly we shall read reports
About the play of breezes,
That whistle round its airy shorts
And Zephyr-like chemises.

And now, to pass to platitudes,
I put it to the printer
That Spring's a season which obtrudes
Upon the heels of Winter;
That Summer does the same to Spring,
And similarly Autumn;
For so the early poets sing
(Lord only knows who taught 'em).

The Seasons' linked dance of joy
No earthly hand may sever,
But we , when we go down, my boy,
Why, we go down for ever;
For save we join the Blessed Dons
By process of translation,
We must abide by Mr. Sw*n's
Or B*lstr*de's valuation.

It boots us nothing, Vere de Vere,
Whether our race's founder
Had all the makings of a Peer,
Or played the common bounder;
It matters not, my noble Sir,
When once our doom is dated,
Whether we kept the rules, or were
Invariably gated.

Your taste for bloods, your pretty sense
Of humour Transatlantic,
Your pensive air, your eloquence,
That drove the Union frantic,
Avail you not; another's name
Will soon adorn your portal;
All passes but the constant flame
Of gyps — and they're immortal.

Time marks our passage on the way
To Charon's bulging wherry,
Not Wordsworth could arrange to stay,
Nor even Muttlebury;
And yet the former's rustic Muse
Was ripe for We are Seven ;
The latter, if they're short of Blues,
Is bound to go to Heaven.