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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 Science 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 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.

by Emily Dickinson (#85 Part two)

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