June is the month of Suicides
WHY do we slay ourselves in June,
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When “Moon,” and “tune,” and “afternoon,”
And other happy rhymes we meet,
When strawberries are coming soon?
Why do we do it?’ you repeat!
Ah, careless butterfly, to thee
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For Love is monarch of thy mood!
Alas! to us no solace shows
For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s,
When Oxford’s bowling always goes
For ‘fours,’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;—
These things can pierce the heart like swords!
And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!