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, Come right up
the stairs with me --
I have so much to tell --
I got your Letter, and
the Birds --
The Maples never knew
that you were coming -- till I called
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
Emily Dickinson
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