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.