Spring is on her way

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 bird’s;

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.

--Emily Dickinson (1830–86)