Poemsby 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.