To My Sister
William Wordsworth
It's the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The red - breast sings from the tall larch
That stands by 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.
O 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.
William Wordsworth
It's the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The red - breast sings from the tall larch
That stands by 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.
O 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.