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 calledI 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

Comments

* said…
beautiful poem...
here is still snow...
Sunday Morning said…
here in lisbon, is raining, a big storm with lightning.
i miss the snow, i envy you:(
and today i need to go out to buy some pastelboard to do an artbook, iíi get everthing all wet, bad luck:(
* said…
poor darling...
but then you have a nice pastelboard to do artthing which is much nicer anyway...
and yes, here is still snow.
I send you some over...

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