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.

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