It is the First Mild Day of March

          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. 
Wordsworth.