A light exists in spring Not present on the
At any other period. When March is scarcely hereA color stands abroad On solitary
That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest
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.
