The speaker overhears someone remark that March the third is here again, and with it, twelve hours of birdsong from half past six to half past six. It’s a Sunday, so the church bells ring, and the speaker notices how the bells and birds’ voices seem to blend perfectly right now — better than they will once spring officially arrives and this unnameable gift fades into ordinary time. There’s a sense that everyone secretly recognizes this day but no one dares to name it, a day that might shift a little but always comes, a reliable miracle of pure song. When it falls on a Sunday, the bells become a wild, natural sound rolling over hillsides, yet the birds’ songs steal the holiness right out of them. For the speaker, this unpromised day matters more than any marked holiday with its seasonal pleasures, simply because it feels like extraordinary luck — a free gift you never expected and can only receive with quiet thanks.
March the Third (the Author's Birthday) — Summary
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.