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.
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 resign
Come forth and feel the sun.
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