TO MY SISTER
Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on
this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in
the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May
1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had
not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired
anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps
than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards
from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most
remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards
and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that
struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose
again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice,
which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by
gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree
had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five
remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had
stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been
wilfully destroyed.
IT is 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.
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 you;--and, 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 a 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 years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power 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.
1798.
