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 —
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 —
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 —
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
As soon as you have come
That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame —
And Praise as mere as Blame —
—Emily Dickinson
These photos are more wishful thinking than reality in Boston, at the moment. Our view is more on the order of bare branches and piles of fresh snow. But I cling to the hope that the rest of March – or “that April” – will bring sunshine and flowers and green grass.
Miss Emily. Always appropriate. 🙂
I saw the excerpt of this poem on your blog and fell in love.
At least April. For sure.
Love Emily Dickinson. This is wonderful!