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.