COVER SHOOTING <br /> <br />The week at Whinwood next to Christmas week. <br />Six guns, no more, but all good men and true, <br />Of the clean--visaged sort, with ruddy cheek <br />Which knows not care. Light--hearted Montagu <br />At the cover's end, as down the wind they flew, <br />Has stopped his score of pheasants, every beak, <br />Without more thought of Juliet than of you; <br />And still I hear his loud--mouthed Purdeys speak. <br /> <br />Tybalt and Paris, with a bet on hand, <br />Have fired at the same woodcock. ``Truce,'' say I, <br />``To civil jars.'' For look, as by command, <br />Bunch following bunch, a hundred pheasants fly. <br />Now battle, murder, death on every side! <br />Right, left, left, right, we pile up agony, <br />Till night stops all. Then home in chastened pride, <br />With aching heads, our slaughter satisfied.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-january/
