by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < May-Flower
Me! Come! My dazzled face > > >
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.
< < < May-Flower
Me! Come! My dazzled face > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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