To My Sister - Poem by William Wordsworth

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.