a little poem I found...

DEAR March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat—
You must have walked—	5
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,	10
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!	15
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.	20
Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.	25
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