William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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.