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.