We Like March


We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot
. News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky.


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Return to the Emily Dickinson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; When Roses Cease To Bloom, Dear

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.