TO MY SISTER. Written at a small distance from my House, and fent by my little Boy. It is the first mild day of March: The red-breast fings from the tall larch There is a bleffing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grafs in the green field. My Sifter! ('tis a wish of mine) 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 fhall 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 fhall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some filent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. |