By Emily Dickinson
Dear March-Come in How Glad I am- I hoped for you before- Put down your hat- You must have walked- How out of breath you are- Dear March, how are you, and the Rest- Did you leave Nature well- Oh, March, come right upstairs with me- I got your letter, and the Birds- The Maples never knew that you were coming- I declare-how Red their faces grew- But March, forgive me- And all those Hills you left for me to hue- There was no Purple suitable- You took it all with you- Who knocks? That April- Lock the door- I will not be pursued- But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come That blame is just as dear as Praise And Praise as mere as Blame-
