sunday poem

 

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.

by emily dickinson (1830-1886)