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 furtherst 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 scarament.

-Emily Dickinson