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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. September</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The only saint in all our calendar<br>Is good St. Partridge. 'Tis his feast to--day,<br>The happiest day of all a happy year,<br>And heralded as never yet was May.<br>The dawn has found us marshalled for the fray,<br>Striding the close--shorn stubbles ranked in line,<br>With lust of battle and with lust of play<br>Made glorious drunk as men are drunk with wine.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536564" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">There go the coveys, forward birds and strong,<br>Bound for the mangold where they wheel and stop.<br>Now, steady, men, and bring the left along.<br>A fortune waits us in each turnip--top.<br>With a wild shriek, and then a whirr of wings,<br>The covey rises. Brace and brace they drop,<br>Joining the dead ranks of forgotten things<br>In glorious death, the fierce delight of kings.</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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