Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Part Three: Nature 87. Dear March, come in!


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.