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.

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