MAY-WEEK.
[Addressed affectionately to the author of "May-Week Then and Now" in The Times of last Wednesday.]
Though forty years have done their worst
To change us to the sere and brown,
Since we in verdant freshness first
Assumed the triple-chevroned gown,
As I perused The Times this very day week
Your statement thrilled me through and through—
How people still go gathering nuts in May-week
Much as they used to do.
The courts their dun-grey habit keep,
Their velvet-green the sacred lawns;
The rooks that marred our matin sleep
Still devastate the golden dawns;
Beneath my westward windows still the same bridge
Sags in the centre as of old;
In fact, in all essential matters Cambridge
Preserves its ancient mould.
Slight innovations have occurred
That rudely on your senses strike;
Our innocence had never heard
The hooting of the motor-bike;
And though you might approve, with your rich tresses,
The vogue of leaving off your hat,
I with a crust that loathes the wind's caresses—
I should revolt at that.
But for the rest there's little strange;
Still Cam pursues his torpid way;
'Tis we alone who suffer change
(I could not stick the course to-day);
New generations lash the same old river,
Spurt up the Long Reach, bump and sup;
What if we pass, through weight of years or liver?
Somebody keeps it up.
Time may have weaned us long ago
With even sterner heights to win
Than when the once resilient toe
Was apt to dance the daylight in;
No doubt we've grown in wisdom since we started,
But I would give my head (with brain)
Just to be back there, young and agile-hearted,
Just for one June again.
O. S.