That time of year thou mayst in us behold
When lateness sometimes seems the only way;
Late nights, long nights before the dreary cold
Sets in our bones and slows us in our way.
That time of term thou mayst in us now spy
When reading seems just too hard to get done
And grading takes so long we want to cry
And evenings feel so short we have no fun.
Our students come to class half dressed or less
From staying up too late, at who knows what;
They're showing the results of too much stress
And not enough good sleep with eyes well shut.
But years of teaching teaches us too well
That most of us will yet survive this hell.
And this is why I study literature and don't write it. (You already know why I'm not an artist!)