March the Third (the Author's Birthday)
HERE again (she said) is March the thirdAnd twelve hours singing for the bird'Twixt dawn and dusk, from half past sixTo half past six, never unheard.
'Tis Sunday, and the church-bells endWhen the birds do. I think they blendNow better than they will when passedIs this unnamed, unmarked godsend.
Or do all mark, and none dares say,How it may shift and long delay,Somewhere before the first of Spring,But never fails, this singing day?
And when it falls on Sunday, bellsAre a wild natural voice that dwellsOn hillsides; but the birds' songs haveThe holiness gone from the bells.
This day unpromised is more dearThan all the named days of the yearWhen seasonable sweets come in,Because we know how lucky we are.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.