To March. By Emily Dickinson

    Dear March, come in!
    How glad I am!
    I looked 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 have so much to tell!

    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!
    He stayed away a year, to call
    When I am occupied.
    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.