Untitled poem by Emily Dickinson: "We like March -- his shoes are Purple."

We like March -- his shoes are Purple.
He is new and high --
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler --
Makes he Forests 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 --
   
     --Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Emily Dickinson

American poet

Untitled poem by Emily Dickinson: "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, 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)

Emily Dickinson

American poet