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.
–Emily Dickinson
Some Other Poem – Click Here