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.