A Poem by Emily Dickinson

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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.