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 naturefeels.

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.