FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE <br /> <br />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. <br /> <br />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.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-september/
