. . . . .

Dear March Come In

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
And Praise as mere as Blame
~Emily Dickinson