THE only saint in all our calendar Is good St. Partridge. 'Tis his feast to-day, The happiest day of all a happy year, And heralded as never yet was May. The dawn has found us marshalled for the fray, Striding the close-shorn stubbles ranked in line, With lust of battle and with lust of play Made glorious drunk as men are drunk with wine. There go the coveys, forward birds and strong, Bound for the mangold where they wheel and stop. Now, steady, men, and bring the left along. A fortune waits us in each turnip-top. With a wild shriek, and then a whirr of wings, The covey rises. Brace and brace they drop, Joining the dead ranks of forgotten things In glorious death, the fierce delight of kings. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAWORTH CHURCHYARD by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE MYSTERY OF PAIN by EMILY DICKINSON MEN WHO MARCH AWAY' (SONG OF THE SOLDIERS) by THOMAS HARDY THE TRUIMPH OF ART by JOSEPHINE TURCK BAKER TO A MATTABASSETT (A CONNECTICUT INDIAN) by WALTER BARDECK |