The Poem

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.

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The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.--Ed.

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