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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. July
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GOODWOOD

 To the high breezes of the Goodwood Down
 London has fled, and there awhile forgets
 Its weariness of limb on lawns new--mown
 And in green shadows all its wars and frets.
 Thither we too will bring our calumets
 In sign of peace restored o`er fashion slain,
 Weaning our souls from folly with small bets
 Of gloves and crowns with laughing ringwomen.

 The sport is fair, luck fair, and Nature`s face
 Fairest of all. We neither make nor mar
 A fortune here. Yet we were rich with less
 Than this week`s pleasure conquered from the year.
 I would not for a million not have seen
 Fred Archer finish upon Guinevere.
 Hark! They are off again, a half mile spin,
 Four of the dozen backed and bound to win.
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