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, how are you, and the Rest --
Did you leave Nature well --
Oh March, Come right up 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 (1830-1886)
American poet
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