March. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

    We like March, his shoes are purple,
    He is new and high;
    Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
    Makes he forest dry;
    Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
    And begets her spot.
    Stands the sun so close and mighty
    That our minds are hot.
    News is he of all the others;
    Bold it were to die
    With the blue-birds buccaneering
    On his British sky.