LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE AND SENT
BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED

                     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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