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    William Wordsworth - To My Sister

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    poetictouch

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    William Wordsworth - To My Sister - Read by Michael Sheen

    To My Sister
    by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

    Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little boy.

    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! ('tis 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'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 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 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 pray,
    With speed put on your woodland dress;
    And bring no book: for this one day
    We'll give to idleness.

    1798