It's 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.

O my sister, 'tis a wish of mine
Now that our morning meal is done, 
Make haste, your morning task [bad word] forth and feel the sun.