LXXXV

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 silence 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.