A light exists in Spring
Not present on the year
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here.
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
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.
-EMILY DICKINSON