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 Fields

  That Science cannot overtake

  But Human Nature feels.

  It waits upon the Lawn

  It shows the furthest Tree

  Upon the furthest Slope you know

  It almost speaks to you.

  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.