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 —

 

by Emily Dickinson

 

The American poet Emily Dickinson was born in December, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts. She lived much of her life in reclusive isolation. She was a very prolific private poet. Fewer than a dozen of her 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime. She died at home in 1886 at the age of 55.