Poemsby Emily 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.