To my Sister

"It is the first mild day of March:



Each minute sweeter than before,



The red-breast sings from the tall larch




That stands beside our door.


There is a blessing in the air,



Which seems a sense of joy to yield




To the bare trees, and mountains bare,



And grass in the green field."







  ~William Wordsworth

TO MY SISTER

          IT is the first mild day of March:
          Each minute sweeter than before
          The redbreast sings from the tall larch
          That stands beside our door.

          There is a blessing in the air,
          Which seems a sense of joy to yield
          To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
          And grass in the green field.

          My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
          Now that our morning meal is done,                          10
          Make haste, your morning task resign;
          Come forth and feel the sun.

          Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
          Put on with speed your woodland dress;
          And bring no book: for this one day
          We'll give to idleness.

          No joyless forms shall regulate
          Our living calendar:
          We from to-day, my Friend, will date
          The opening of the year.                                    20

          Love, now a universal birth,
          From heart to heart is stealing,
          From earth to man, from man to earth:
          --It is the hour of feeling.

          One moment now may give us more
          Than years of toiling reason:
          Our minds shall drink at every pore
          The spirit of the season.

          Some silent laws our hearts will make,
          Which they shall long obey:                                 30
          We for the year to come may take
          Our temper from to-day.

          And from the blessed power that rolls
          About, below, above,
          We'll frame the measure of our souls:
          They shall be tuned to love.

          Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
          With speed put on your woodland dress;
          And bring no book: for this one day
          We'll give to idleness.