| It is the first day of March, Each minute sweeter than before; The red-breast sings from the tall larch That stands beside the 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. |
Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, Form 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. |
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— Wordsworth
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