GOODWOOD <br /> <br />To the high breezes of the Goodwood Down <br />London has fled, and there awhile forgets <br />Its weariness of limb on lawns new--mown <br />And in green shadows all its wars and frets. <br />Thither we too will bring our calumets <br />In sign of peace restored o'er fashion slain, <br />Weaning our souls from folly with small bets <br />Of gloves and crowns with laughing ringwomen. <br /> <br />The sport is fair, luck fair, and Nature's face <br />Fairest of all. We neither make nor mar <br />A fortune here. Yet we were rich with less <br />Than this week's pleasure conquered from the year. <br />I would not for a million not have seen <br />Fred Archer finish upon Guinevere. <br />Hark! They are off again, a half mile spin, <br />Four of the dozen backed and bound to win.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-july/
