To my sister

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 ! (it is 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 will give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate 

our living calendar :

we from today, 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 today.

And from the blessed  power that rolls 

about, below, above,

we will frame the measure of our souls :

They shall be turned  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 will give to idleness.

William Wordsworth