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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536558" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. July</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536558" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">GOODWOOD</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536558" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">To the high breezes of the Goodwood Down<br>London has fled, and there awhile forgets<br>Its weariness of limb on lawns new--mown<br>And in green shadows all its wars and frets.<br>Thither we too will bring our calumets<br>In sign of peace restored o'er fashion slain,<br>Weaning our souls from folly with small bets<br>Of gloves and crowns with laughing ringwomen.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536558" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The sport is fair, luck fair, and Nature's face<br>Fairest of all. We neither make nor mar<br>A fortune here. Yet we were rich with less<br>Than this week's pleasure conquered from the year.<br>I would not for a million not have seen<br>Fred Archer finish upon Guinevere.<br>Hark! They are off again, a half mile spin,<br>Four of the dozen backed and bound to win.</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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