The snow has settled on the meadow,
The snow has settled on the Bod.
The pelican is shivering, gently,
Waiting for spring to wake her quad.
Over the city the blanket is itching,
Plumping its feathers, looking to fly;
Just below, the chimneys, smoking,
Long for winter's hearth to die.
Where are picnics by the river?
Where has welfare football gone?
Merton Street is stretching, gasping,
Too depressed to struggle on.
Still, the JCR stays lively:
Weekly pizza, daily tea
Drags the Corpuscles from their vigils
Deep in the tombs of the library.
The times give birth to hopeful babble:
Corpus quivers with the sound.
Soon the frost will be forgiven,
When it shrinks back underground.
Yet we know that when the sunshine
Finally brings crimson joy,
Then the worming essay crisis
Will our newborn lives destroy.
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