Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/116

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64

LINES

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.