 LXXXVIII |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| With the blue-birds buccaneering | |
| On his British sky. Emily Dickinson |
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