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-

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