A
LIGHT exists in spring
Not present on the year
At
any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A
color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That
silence cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It
waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon
the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then,
as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without
the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A
quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As
trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
- Emily Dickinson
