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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536557" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. January</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536557" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">COVER SHOOTING</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536557" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The week at Whinwood next to Christmas week.<br>Six guns, no more, but all good men and true,<br>Of the clean--visaged sort, with ruddy cheek<br>Which knows not care. Light--hearted Montagu<br>At the cover's end, as down the wind they flew,<br>Has stopped his score of pheasants, every beak,<br>Without more thought of Juliet than of you;<br>And still I hear his loud--mouthed Purdeys speak.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536557" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Tybalt and Paris, with a bet on hand,<br>Have fired at the same woodcock. ``Truce,'' say I,<br>``To civil jars.'' For look, as by command,<br>Bunch following bunch, a hundred pheasants fly.<br>Now battle, murder, death on every side!<br>Right, left, left, right, we pile up agony,<br>Till night stops all. Then home in chastened pride,<br>With aching heads, our slaughter satisfied.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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