He went complaining all the morrow His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, That day he wore a riding-coat, 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, No word to any man he utters, 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 My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Edward will come with you, and pray, 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. |