54794: March the Third

<p dir="ltr"> Here again (she said) is March the third<br> And twelve hours' singing for the bird<br> 'Twixt dawn and dusk, from half-past six<br> To half-past six, never unheard.<br> 'Tis Sunday, and the church-bells end<br> When the birds do. I think they blend<br> Now better than they will when passed<br> Is this unnamed, unmarked godsend.<br> Or do all mark, and none dares say,<br> How it may shift and long delay,<br> Somewhere before the first of Spring,<br> But never fails, this singing day?<br> And when it falls on Sunday, bells<br> Are a wild natural voice that dwells<br> On hillsides; but the birds' songs have<br> The holiness gone from the bells.<br> This day unpromised is more dear<br> Than all the named days of the year<br> When seasonable sweets come in,<br> Because we know how lucky we are.<br></p>