Explore "March" by Emily Dickinson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.