Franco Aragosta, il pescatore saggio

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, Come right up the stairs with me —

I have so much to tell —

I got your Letter, and the Birds —

The Maples never knew 

that you were coming — till I called

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 (1830-1886)