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,
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. 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:
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.