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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536562" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. November</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536562" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">ACROSS COUNTRY</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536562" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">November's here. Once more the pink we don,<br>And on old Centaur, at the coverside,<br>Sit changing pleasant greetings one by one<br>With friend and neighbour. Half the county's pride<br>Is here to--day. Squire, parson, peer, bestride<br>Their stoutest nags, impatient to be gone.<br>Here, schoolboys on their earliest ponies ride,<br>And village lads on asses, not out--done.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536562" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But hark! That sounds like music. Ay, by God!<br>He's off across the fallow. ``No, sirs, no;<br>``Not yet a minute, just another rod!<br>``Then let him have it. Ho, there, tallyho!''<br>Now that's worth seeing! Look! He's topped the wall,<br>Leaving his whole field pounded in a row.<br>A first flight place to--day was worth a fall.<br>So forward each, and Heaven for us all!</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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