A light exists in Spring

Not present in the Year

At any other period—

When March is scarcely here

 

A Color stands abroad

On Solitary Fields

That Science cannot overtake

But Human Nature feels.

 

It waits upon the Lawn,

It shows upon the furthest Tree

Upon the furthest Slope you know

It almost speaks to you.

 

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

 

 

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