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.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-july/
