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Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.


Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The red-breast 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.

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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 an 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 fifty years of reason;

Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.


Some silent laws our hearts may 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


With speed put on your woodland dress,

And bring no book; for this one day
We'll give to idleness.


By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless story told)

One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.
Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:
With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore
My father's nets, or from the mountain fold
Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar

Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more.

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