Poemsby Emily Dickinson

To March

 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.