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Oh dearest, dearest boy ! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn
Could I but teach the hundredth part.
Of what from thee I learn.

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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


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


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 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 shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.


Some silent laws our hearts may make,
Which they shall long obey ;
We for the

year to come may take Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed


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.

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By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless story told)
One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.
Light was my sleep; my days in transport rollid :
With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore
My father's nets, or from the mountain fold
Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar
Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more.

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