March the Third

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March the Third

Here again (she said) is March the third

And twelve hours singing for the bird

’Twixt dawn and dusk, from half past six

To half past six, never unheard.

’Tis Sunday, and the church-bells end

When the birds do. I think they blend

Now better than they will when passed

Is 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, bells

Are a wild natural voice that dwells

On hillsides; but the birds’ songs have

The holiness gone from the bells.

This day unpromised is more dear

Than all the named days of the year

When seasonable sweets come in,

Because we know how lucky we are.