A light exists in spring
By Emily Dickinson

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 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.

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