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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536561" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. May</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536561" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">THE LONDON SEASON</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536561" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I still love London in the month of May,<br>By an old habit, spite of dust and din.<br>I love the fair adulterous world, whose way<br>Is by the pleasant banks of Serpentine.<br>I love the worshippers at fashion's shrine,<br>The flowers, the incense, and the pageantry<br>Of generations which still ask a sign<br>Of that dear god, whose votary am I.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536561" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I love the ``greetings in the market--place,''<br>The jargon of the clubs. I love to view<br>The ``gilded youth'' who at the window pass,<br>For ever smiling smiles for ever new.<br>I love these men and women at their task<br>Of hunting pleasure. Hope, mysterious too,<br>Touches my arm and points, and seems to ask<br>``And you, have you no Juliet in the masque?''</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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