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.